


"There was one mission for Illyan..."

by RogerStenning



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogerStenning/pseuds/RogerStenning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it absolutely, positively, definitely, has to be done deniably, there's only one man to send, dammit.</p><p>Where's the antacid gone?</p><p>(NOTE: Violence warnings relate to later chapters).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There's a first time for everything...

# "There was one mission for Illyan..."

 

Chapter # 1  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

 

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold' copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!

Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.  
   
Inspired by the FanFic story "It was before your time" by Tammy Nott (17 September 1998,  
URL <http://www.dendarii.co.uk/FanFic/before.html>)

  
*****

  
("A Civil Campaign", by Lois McMaster Bujold, Hardcover edition ISBN 0-671-57827-8, pp 295)  
  
Miles burrowed back into the sofa, and scratched his cheek. "There was one mission for Illyan... I don't want to talk about it. It was close, unpleasant work, but we brought it off." His eyes fixed broodingly on the carpet...  


 

*****

_**Several years earlier...**_  
  
Simon Illyan, Chief of Barrayaran Imperial Security, leaned back in his chair, re-read the flimsy in his hand and, putting it down, sighed heavily. There really was just no getting away from it: The more usual facilities of Galactic Affairs just weren't up to this particular problem, and despite the former Regents' request regarding mission priorities and taskings, there was, unfortunately, only one operative that he could dump this problem on.  
  
Just as well the man was on Barrayar for a spot of leave, instead of out on the deep range somewhere, getting into trouble again. Time to summon the cause of more than one incipient peptic ulcer for a briefing, then.  
  
He sat up straight in his chair, took a deep breath, and tapped the intercom key. "Christoph, send for Lieutenant Lord Vorkosigan, please."

 

 

***

  
"So there you have it, Lieutenant. We do nothing, and this entire can of worms comes out, and a decade of Imperial Diplomacy will be down the disposer. You can see where this is going, of course."  
  
Miles was almost agog with horror. "Sir, you want me to find this man, stick a weapon to his head, and squeeze the trigger. No explanations, no arrest, no chance at plugging this through other means, just find him and kill him? Just like that?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why me, Sir?"  
  
"Because you can do it, and my other assets cannot - they cannot gain the required means to do the job in the time available. You already have the tools, and the means."  
  
Illyan counted off on his fingers as he talked, "Let's be very clear: It is in the vital needs of the Empire that this man be silenced by whatever means are quietly available to us. He has already told us, in not so polite wording, that unless we give him those two billion Marks – money that we cannot possibly give him, and he knows it, too - that he intends to tell the Cetagandans what he knows, along with the Escobarans, Earthers, and God knows who else. You also have one vital asset: Deniability. Admiral Naismith is most demonstrably not a Barrayaran, and nor does he work for us, either. Granted it'll leave a trail of circumstantial evidence pointing to us, but none of our forces will have been involved. It's a lose/lose situation, really."  
  
Illyan let his hand drop, pushed himself back from his desk, and rose from his chair, walking to the corner of the office by the single small quadruple-glazed, polarised, force-screened, and buzzer-protected window looking into the light well of the ImpSec HQ. Leaning against the window frame for a brief moment, he turned his attention to the dispensing slot next to it, and keyed for a cup of coffee.  
  
Leaning against the wall and crossing his arms while the coffee brewed and dispensed, he regarded Miles for a moment, then continued, "Frankly, Miles, if there were another way, I'd employ it. There isn't, so I'm left with you. I'm aware that this is the first time I've asked you to deliberately kill a man, but this is Imperial Service, and it is a legal order. I'm not sorry it has to be done. Frankly, I'd pull the bloody trigger myself if the opportunity arose: The man's a smarmy little greedy traitorous slug, and what he says he intends to do will almost certainly result in, at best, the severance of diplomatic ties with half the known governments in the local hubs, and at worst, another war with the Cetis. In short, he has to be silenced, one way or the other. The other way is regrettably the only way I can see this coming off for Barrayar. For what it's worth, I am sorry it's you that has to do it."  
  
He collected the steaming cup of coffee from the slot and, pushing himself away from the wall, returned his seat at the desk, opening a drawer beneath the comconsole. He withdrew a grey vellum parchment wrapped in a black ribbon. The Emperor - Gregor - had signed off on it, Miles saw, as it was sealed with a black wax stamp, bearing the Vorbarra Crest.  
  
"This is the warrant. Obviously, you cannot take it with you. How you complete the mission is entirely your own decision, but this has been authorised, as you can see, by the highest level," he waved the parchment once, and placed it on his desk, setting it straight and level with the tips of his index fingers. "You should read it before you leave this room, as it’s highly unlikely that you’ll ever see it again - it'll be attached to your permanent file hardcopy before you leave the building."

 

  
***

  
Miles was used to travelling light; he did it regularly, as there was just about enough room in an Imperial Fast Courier to swing a small mouse. It gave him, however, room to study the files he’d been given on the mission, and more to the point, time to brood. By the time he reached the Dendarii fleet, his mood had descended from merely dismal to downright lethally irritable.  
  
The problem confronted by ImpSec was classic: A high-level civil servant had become somewhat disaffected by a lack of promotion (dead mens shoes, better candidates, and so on, causing the blockage), and had stewed on it for a number of years before an exceedingly sensitive document mistakenly passed across his desk.  
  
Given that the man had just received his fourth knockback in as many years, it was exceedingly poor timing all round, especially considering that it touched on an ongoing false flag operation that had moles inside many planetary governments, all of them feeding information to ImpSec, thinking that they were, instead, feeding that information to other powers, such as the Cetagandans, Escobarans, and so on. As long-term operations went, this one should never have been mentioned outside ImpSec, and the officer responsible for the accidental intra-departmental leak had already been moved to a much less sensitive post. Never the less, the damage had been done: Within 24 hours, the passed-over official had vanished.  
  
How he’d managed to get past emigration control and get off-planet without help was something of a mystery, and was being thoroughly investigated, but a mere seven days on, they’d caught sight, purely by chance, of the man heading towards the Hegen Hub, probably intending to get to either Cetagandan space or Jackson’s Whole. The latter was the better bet, and that gave ImpSec it’s window of opportunity, via Miles and the Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet. The traitor was no-ones’ fool. He’d hired bodyguards. Like the Dendarii, mercenaries; rather good ones, too, though not, reputation-wise, quite as good as Miles’ troops.  
  
Miles saw three possible methods of assassination:  
  
Sniper – not practical in this situation, too much chance of a not-so-surgical strike if it went wrong.  
  
Second, a small strike team, say twenty troops in two drop shuttles if the right circumstances came up. Not bloody likely, and not too easy to pull off with a zero body count on the Dendarii side of things.  
  
The last possibility, and most messy if it went wrong, was a covert strike team, to perform a very close-quarters and maximum shock value infiltration and - for want of a more dispassionate description - hit on the target. Done right, it could be successfully executed - pun not intended. It was the planning that was going to be the biggest nightmare of all, but then Illyan didn't assign him difficult jobs for the fun of it: it was because Miles achieved spectacular results as if conjuring them from almost thin air.  
  
Once in a small while, Miles caught himself wishing that his mercenaries weren’t quite as good as they turned out to be. This was most definitely one of those times. It could be done alright, and Illyan was right: Miles was the ideal tool in the box to do the dirty deed. This thought blackened his mood even further.  
  
Captain Elli Quinn caught his mood at once, of course, and the moment they were privately ensconced in his office aboard the flagship Ariel, asked the obvious question.  
  
"Simon given us another sod of a job?"  
  
"Worse."  
  
"How worse?"  
  
"Abysmal". Miles dropped a code case on the desk top, and dropped into his chair with a grunt.  
  
"Oh, crap", she commented dryly, sitting down somewhat more gracefully on the opposing seat, "One-word answers. What’ve we got to do now?"  
  
"Wetwork." He pressed his thumb on the panel of the code case, which opened with a slick mechanical click.  
  
She sat bolt upright. "What?" She was horrified. In all the time she’s known him, he’d never intentionally set out to kill someone specific – it just wasn’t his way of working at all.  
  
"We have to find a man, and kill him."  
  
"I know what the phrase means, Miles," she retorted. "Illyan gave this to you? Himself?"  
  
"Yes. And I hate to say it, but he may well be right." He leaned back in his chair and sighed, thoroughly exhausted, as he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Elli, I’ve been almost a full week in that damn courier, going over all the files, and there is no other way that I can see of doing this damn job. Believe me, I’ve tried until my eyes have been ready to fall out of my head, and my brains squidge out of my ears."  
  
Despite herself, she found the corners of her mouth turning upwards as she winced. "Ugh. Not a pretty picture".  
  
"Indeed not", he snorted.  
  
"Can I have a look?"  
  
"Misery loves company, so knock yourself out." He slid the code-case containing the sanitised but still sensitive data chips across the desk top to her.  
  
"Before you do, bring the fleet to 30 minutes readiness to move. I have to try and figure out where the blasted target’s going to be now – my data’s almost three weeks out of date, dammit."  
  
"I gave the order as you docked: Figured we may have to move in a hurry."  
  
"Eventually, yeah. Oh, and get Lieutenant Commander Chodak and Sergeant Major Bryce up here. I want their advice on the strike team or teams and operational concepts as well."


	2. Guess who's coming to dinner...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've got the wrong target, if you shoot the messenger...

# "There was one mission for Illyan..."

Part # 2  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!

Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.

  
*****

  
  
Lieutenant Commander Chodak and Sergeant Major Bryce were, at that time, up to their necks in arguing with a Technical Sergeant in the Armoured Suit bay, who was of a build that he'd probably be able to win a fight with a suit itself, considered Chodak, but for his height. He was of a somewhat shorter stature than average - and just as wide. And none of it was flab. Allegedly, he had a habit of crushing small metal spheres in his hands. Chodak could believe it. In any case, the argument had been going on for over a quarter of an hour, neither side budging once.  
  
"No sir, I can't do that, the damn things are still under warranty!", ranted Technical Sergeant Tamaj, "Hells bells, Sir, it's bad enough trying to get spares for these things for regular maintenance, but when their tech rep has his irregular inspections, the first thing he looks for is non-warranty mods – and hauling out and changing the remote system on these suits is one of those mods!"  
  
Bryce snorted briefly, and, hands on hips, regarded the shorter man down his Terran British-style handle-bar moustache. "So what's he going to do, sue us?"  
  
Chodak tried not to grin too much, and forestalled the tech sergeant. "No, CSM, I think what the Tech Sergeant is telling us is that costs will sky-rocket. Is that it, Technical Sergeant?"  
  
Looking a little relieved that the officer to his front was finally getting the message, Tamaj relaxed a little. "Yes sir, that's exactly what I'm saying. We've a specific budget for maintenance, excluding battle damage, of course, and if the warranty is withdrawn through unauthorised mods, bang goes the budget. I can't fix it, if I can't afford to buy the parts, sir".  
  
Bryce and Chodak caught the issue at the same moment and spoke the same word at the same time: "Unauthorised?"  
  
Bryce stopped "Sorry, sir, please, go ahead".  
  
"Thanks, CSM. Sergeant, you just said 'Unauthorised'. Can you get the tech rep to authorise the retrofitting of the remote takeover warning alarm we want?"  
  
"I don't know, sir; it's not a feature the Polians offered with these full feedback battle suits when they sold them to us."  
  
"Couch it in terms of a test for a feature they should be offering – the alternative is a long and protracted battle in court and the ensuing extremely negative advertising that they'll get from it. I'm sure he'll do the right thing for us," Chodak grinned wolfishly at the tech.  
  
At that moment, a wall-mounted comm panel bleeped and announced: "Lieutenant Commander Chodak and Sergeant Major Bryce, Admiral's briefing, now, respond, over". It repeated twice.  
  
Chodak walked the two paces to the panel, and hit the talk button. "Chodak. I've got Bryce with me. On the way. Over."  
  
"Bridge, roger, out".  
  
They took their leave of Technical Sergeant Tamaj, and made their way to the Admirals' spaces. On the way, Bryce asked Chodak about the option he suggested.  
  
"It's like this, CSM. When the Admiral made me an officer, he insisted that I attend the Escobaran Commercial Military Officers Course. Something about getting a fully rounded Junior officers' Course, or something. I was so surprised at making officer, what he said kind of went in one ear, and out the other." They both grinned, one sheepishly, the other wolfishly.  
  
Chodak continued, "So, there we were, in a tactics class, learning that it's not all about fighting, but the crap that comes either side of the battle, when the instructor gave us a situation: We'd been involved in a fire fight, where a few of the weapons, brand new from the factory, had malfunctioned, occasioning a few tense moments for our side, before we managed to overcome the problem and win, but not without a few casualties. Being a commercial operation – mercenaries, in other words - we expected to make a profit, and the weapons failures ate into the margins, so, how to get the money back? The scenario was to try to extract a refund for the failed weapons. You KNOW how difficult that can be after the event. Anyway, he set us into two teams, and set us to it, one being the mercs, the other being the manufacturer. We banged around it left right, and centre, all that hour. I eventually lost my rag, and yelled at one of the opposing debating team 'well why don't we let the flaming lawyers at it, then? You'll be tied up in so much red tape, you'll never sell another weapon!' It was then that the instructor told us that this had been the optimum solution, and he carried on with giving us the next task, like it was a walk in the park. Needless to say, it stuck in the memory." Chodak shrugged. "Not just Officers and Gentlemen, but Officers and Accountants, with steel toe caps. Go figure."  
  
Bryce snorted a brief laugh. "Glad it stuck in your mind, sir. I might not have thought of that angle. It's got a nice twist in the tail for their tech rep."  
  
Chodak smiled grimly. "That it has, although I doubt he'll agree. Ah, here we are".

 

  
***

  
Some time later, all four of them were still debating the right approach to planning the proposed hit, when Miles' comconsole beeped.  
  
"Naismith. Go."  
  
"Burst message from the courier you came in on, sir. It's canned, and they aren't going hear any reply, as they say they're jumping out in less than five minutes from now. Shall I pipe it down?"  
  
"Thank you. Secured, if you please."  
  
"Piping secured transmission now, sir. Comms out."  
  
Miles read the message and sat down abruptly. "Oh, crap. Not again."  
  
Elli looked up. Miles face was a mix of surprise, annoyance, and irritation. "Oh hell. Now what, Sir?"  
  
"We've got confirmation of who he hired as bodyguards." He looked up. "Randalls blasted Rangers. For a share of the profits. Guess who's leading them?"  
  
"Oh no" Elli hung her head, suddenly feeling very, very tired. "Not her again?!" Quinn sat down heavily.  
  
Chodak looked up. "Oh shit. I remember that nut job all too well."  
  
Bryce looked around the room in confusion. "Someone rain on your parade, Sirs and Ma'am? The Rangers aren't that much of a handful in such small numbers. We can get past them easily enough. It's doing it cleanly that's the problem."  
  
Miles spoke up. "It's not the Rangers that are the problem, Sergeant-Major. It's their boss. Cavilo. I've had – we've had, I should say – previous dealings with her. She's like a rabid mongoose, ready, willing, and very able, to bite not only the hand that feeds her, but every other hand in close proximity as well. If she's in the picture, you can bloody well bet several other less than desirable folks are in the picture as well, probably interstellar powers, although probably not -" he grinned humourlessly "- the Cetagandans. She annoyed them quite effectively last time we met, about three years ago or so".  
  
"Ah. I see. Just as well I was with Carter's Protection Force then, I suppose."  
  
"Probably. You came to us on a buyout when, two years back, wasn't it?"  
  
"Yes, sir. You bought the Force when Major Carter retired."  
  
"We needed the Close protection specialists. It was the easiest way to get the expertise. The fact that you all melded nicely into our forces was a nice touch."  
  
"We thought it was the other way around, Sir, but I won't labour the issue.", the CSM grinned evilly.  
  
Miles merely raised an eyebrow to the Sergeant-Major, who coughed once, and found an interesting item on the wall to examine. Miles looked back down at the ideas on the table. "Right, back to work. Let's not worry about what the opposition is for the time being. Let's try to get inside the mind of this man, and figure out where he's gone to ground, instead. The one will lead to the other soon enough, after all."

  
***

  
A week later, they arrived in the Hegen Hub, a veritable nothing of space, occupied only by one star, four space stations, and a whole attitude of suspicion. A perfect bolt-hole, therefore, for a traitor on the run. However, this traitor wanted to get somewhere other than back to Barrayaran space, so the logical conclusion was that he would be aboard the Jackson's Whole Wormhole staging station, running his traitorous little secrets auction, before metaphorically legging it to Lord Knows Where.  
  
So, Miles set course for the Jackson station, and reflected on what had happened the last time he'd brought a fleet action to this little nothing of space...


	3. "...turnabout IS fair play, after all..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you want something done...

# "There was one mission for Illyan..."

Part # 3  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!

Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.

*****

 

It would take a few hours to cross what was frankly one of the sorriest excuses for a star system that Miles had ever seen, so while the others pored over the, by now very well read and reread, intelligence, technical, and legal reports relating to the mission, he instead spent some time going over various reports and notes from his many and various fleet section heads, including a few Officer Appraisal reports that were well overdue for his administrative attention.  
  
It often seemed that one of the jobs of a mercenary Fleet Admiral, like any other more normal business leader trying to make a good profit, was to suffer the death of a thousand paper cuts (metaphorically speaking, of course). He was reminded of the old latrine joke: A job is never done, until the paperwork is finished.  
  
From being hunched over the comconsole as he worked, his head came up like a missile, eyes as big as dinner plates, and he sat as bolt upright as Elli had been a short while earlier.  
  
Waitagoddamnminute.  
  
Paperwork?  
  
Profit?  
  
On the Jackson Consortium Transfer Station?!  
  
He began to chuckle: It started as a mildly dirty chuckle, meandered into a thoroughly evil cackle, and grew to almost manically villainous proportions, before he remembered where he was, and who he was with, abruptly stopped, and started to cough in embarrassment, much to the rather contained amusement of all present, who had been trying to brainstorm some truly spectacular ways to get themselves either killed or captured, trying to get at the traitor.  
  
"Sorry. Something I remembered spurred a truly karmic payback idea. Elli: remember how I was unavoidably detained, the last time I visited this damn station?"  
  
Her eyes grew as large as saucers, and clapped her hands to her mouth as she too, began to grin and giggle.  
  
Chodak looked like he'd been hit by a large, cold, and very dead fish, and threw his arms up in amazement. "Aargh! How the hell did we miss that?!" he was trying hard not to laugh as well.  
  
Bryce, the only one in the room not to get the joke, just sat there, the expression on his face speaking volumes for his Terran British patience and forbearing under stress.  
  
Elli stopped giggling long enough to catch her breath, and spoke up again "Surely it can't be THAT damned simple to grab him?"  
  
"I don't see why not, and turnabout IS fair play, after all."  
  
Chodak lost the battle, and guffawed loudly. "It should be good enough to separate him from those bloody Rangers for a while. Surely even Cavilo has to have enough sense not to resist those rentacops?"  
  
The penny dropped for Bryce. "And how much will it cost to buy the arrest warrant, Sir, and how quickly might the Rangers buy it off?"  
  
Miles pondered that for a brief moment, rubbing his chin with the side of his fist. "That's the sixty-four million Betan Dollar question, Sergeant-Major. We have to set it high enough to guarantee the arrest on the spot, without breaking the bank here, and to such an amount that Cavilo can't immediately buy it off. Elli, find out what we've got in the black ops budget. We should be flush enough following that anti-piracy gig we just completed for Our Employer, after all."  
  
Elli grabbed up the sound-powered handset and dialled for the fleet accountant. This was shaping up to be a rather interesting way of doing business, for a little while. At the very least, it should buy some time for them to get organised properly, rather than perform their more normal last minute wing-and-a-prayer operational miracles. Well, one could hope, anyhow.  
  
"Here's another thought, sir. What are we going to accuse this guy of having done?" asked Bryce.  
  
"Hmm. It's got to be something that'll command instant attention and focus with this lot," Observed Chodak. "There isn't much that'll do that, here: their statute law is practically non-existent, and most of the rest is based on whatever were the whims of the big fish that suited them at any particular time, to protect their businesses - if you can call this pirate's haven a prime trading location!".  
  
Miles, however, was still wearing his almost patented Evil Grin. "Easy. What do they hold as practically sacred above everything else, here? No-one? It's the most fundamental of concepts in Jacksonian trading principles - if you can call it that: It's The Deal. Once you agree to do something, that's it: You do the job required of The Deal, or there'll be all manner of penalties imposed. This is, after all, the only jurisdiction where some contractual violations - what they call deal-breaking activities - carry an automatic death sentence in the contracts. People, we've got our first lever. The charges we'll buy on the target will be 'On behalf of an Unnamed Client: Capital Deal Breaking, Capital Intellectual Property Theft, and Capital Patent Infringement'. How does that sound?"  
  
Elli was silent as she digested this, then wondered "Won't this give away that some else knows that he Knows Too Much to live?"  
  
Miles shook his head. "No. Frankly, that's somewhat academic at this point. He's bound to know that someone's coming from Our Employer to either stop, retrieve, or liquidate him: He's also had just about enough time to contact, and have meaningful responses from, several governments and powers to sell his purloined letters to, and probably set a time and date for the auction already. Time's not on our side, and we still don't know where on the station he is - it's a truly massive place, remember. This tactic will flush him into the open more effectively than any other method that I can think of. Any more thoughts or ideas?".  
  
Chodak sat up, a concerned expression on his face. “Yeah. Sir, is he using his own name, or a fake ID?”  
  
“Damn. Good point, and no, I've no idea. Blast!”  
  
“Hold on”, piped up Elli, “There may be a way to off two birds with one stone here. Why not put Cavilo as a known accomplice, and a 'John Doe' on the prime arrest target as the names on the Arrest Order? She knows far too much from that last debacle here, after all, and I'm sure you know who would like to thoroughly debrief and contain her, don't you, Miles”, she winked meaningfully at him. Yep, she meant Simon Illyan, alright. She was probably bang on with that assessment as well, he mused, remembering the tongue lashing Simon had given him for letting her get away so cleanly, with such risky information in her head. Elli continued “We've got 2-D flat photos of the both of them to save on mistaken identities being passed off to us, Cavilo in our own fleet intelligence records, and the one of the Target from his ID file”.  
  
“Heh. I like it.” Miles smiled toothily. “Saves us the bother of finding them the hard way. Do it.”  
  
No-one had any better ideas, so all that remained was to decide the price of the "warrant". Miles had an idea on that score too. “Sergeant-Major, would you be so kind as to find out what Randalls Rangers current disposable liquid assets are in-system? The Jacksonian Business Information Office on-station will charge a very reasonable fee for this information, and being business intelligence, it'll be far more accurate than the local media sources. Charge it to the Fleet Intel Account.”  
  
A couple of hours later, they had their figures. The Rangers were solvent to the tune of a half million Betan Dollars in-system, with no wholly-owned fleet assets in-system.  
  
This made the figure a lot easier to decide on. Hard currency being preferred out here, it had to be bigger than the Rangers' available funds, to prevent a successful counter-bid. This would obviously require a sizeable figure in Betan Dollars.  
  
Due to the capital nature of the charges they were buying, they opted for a riveting amount: Five Hundred Thousand ß$ for each of them. The black ops slush fund could cover it nicely, and the bill he'd submit to Simon would recoup it anyhow, so one million total, it was. Miles was in no doubt that the station's “Jacksonian Corporation Police” (or “JACOPS”), as they now grandiosely called themselves, would jump over themselves to successfully execute such an expensive arrest order.  
  
As he signed the finance requisition order to the Fleet Accountant, Miles idly wondered if the shock of the arrest to the fugitive would take care of the rest of the mission for them...


	4. When in doubt, buy them out...

# "There was one mission for Illyan..."

Part # 4  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!

Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.

  
*****

  
The Jacksonian Jump Transfer Station Corporation Police Headquarters had what could very loosely be described as an extradition unit. It was part of the slightly larger Customer Services Section, who dealt with processing arrest purchase orders for on-station issues. The Dendarii extradition purchase order came through to Administration Sergeant Cadaw, who'd been on the job for fifteen years, and was, by Jacksonian standards, very happy in her job, and who had, she believed, seen everything possible there was to be seen.  
  
She was dead wrong, of course.  
  
She almost fell off her seat in surprise at the bid value on the purchase order on the screen in front of her. “Whoa! HOW much?!” She knew for a certainty that she couldn't process this one on her own, so called her shift supervisor, Lieutenant Dakk. He looked at it, went rather pale, and called his boss, Captain Ambrose, who went white at the lips, and called his boss, the Man In Charge, Major Yentall.  
  
Yentall HAD seen it all. He knew exactly what this meant. Trouble. Big 'T'. Big the rest of it too, come to think of it. “Send me the indictment papers on that purchase order, Frank. Let's see how much crap we're going to be rolling in, if we accept it.”  
  
“You got it.” A few taps on a keyboard from off-screen, and it was there. “Got it?”  
  
“Yeah. Gimme ten minutes to read it, and I'll get back to you. End.” he swiped the close strip on the top of the screen, and read the extradition indictment.  


> **_ARREST AND EXTRADITION PURCHASE ORDER_ **
> 
> _Offender # 1:_  
>  Cavilo, Commander, Randall's Rangers Commercial Military Organisation, a.k.a. Livia Nu  
>  2-D ID photo attached,  
>  Citizenry status unknown.
> 
> _Offender #2:_  
>  Josef Garodovich, travelling under unknown assumed alias,  
>  2-D ID photo attached,  
>  Barrayaran Subject.
> 
> _The Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet, Admiral Miles Naismith Commanding,  On behalf of an Unnamed Client, charges that the offenders are guilty of the following charges and specifications:_
> 
> _Offender # 1:_  
>  Assisting an Offender  
>  Harbouring a fugitive  
>  Intent and Complicity to commit Capital Deal Breaking  
>  Intent and Complicity to commit Capital Intellectual Property Theft, and  
>  Intent and Complicity to commit Capital Patent Infringement  
>   
>  _Offender #1 is charged with Intent and complicity based on previous (classified) dealings with offender #2's home world, and with her intent to do that world irrevocable harm by way of malicious revenge, by way of providing material aid and assistance, encouraging, and helping Offender #2 to commit his offences._

> _Offender #2:  
> _

> _Capital Deal Breaking_  
>  Capital Intellectual Property Theft, and  
>  Capital Patent Infringement
> 
> Offender #2 is charged that within the last three months he did willingly and knowingly break life contract with his employer (who is known to this recovery contractor), stealing certain data and systems of practice that is potentially mortally damaging to the Employer. Such Deal Breaking, theft, and infringement are potentially capital crimes on his home world.
> 
> The offenders are to be delivered in the following condition(s):
> 
> X - Restrained  
>      - Unrestrained  
>  X - Live  
>      - Deceased  
>  X - Healthy  
>      - Health Condition not a concern
> 
> Given the seriousness of the charges, we are tendering arrest and extradition bids to the sum of
> 
> (SUM ENTERED) ß$500,000 (Five Hundred Thousand Betan Dollars)
> 
> on each offender, to be paid on delivery. We wish an expeditious resolution to this Purchase Order.
> 
> Notes: it is believed that Cavilo is travelling with up to 10 (ten) persons with special forces-level combat training and experience, acting as “bodyguards”. We have no knowledge of any armaments that they may be carrying.
> 
>    - We want these persons for an extra charge  
>  X - We are not interested in these persons  
>     - We prefer them to go unmolested.  
>  X - You may deal with them as you see fit.

  
Major Yentall leaned back from the console, and stretched, then cracked his knuckles, one at a time, thinking, weighing the pros and cons. A million Betan was a nice amount. It'd pay for a hell of a lot of things he wanted to happen on-station for his division, and wouldn't look bad at employee appraisal time with the consortium back home on Jackson's Whole. Might even help him that directorship he wanted. On the flip side, he'd be taking on ten potentially heavily armed special forces types. Well, there were ways around that.  
  
One bloody million bucks.  
  
His people, though, were basically hire police, not military. BUT, it's my home turf, not theirs, he reasoned. WE have all the advantages. Fine: done, and done. He keyed Captain Ambrose. “Frank? Ernst. Take the order. Get surveillance to find them, then get environmental to pump whatever Obliverine agent they have that works fastest with the least side-effects into the chambers they're all occupying – troops and all. I want them all in snoreland before we walk in. Can do?”  
  
Ambrose grinned back. “Can do. Should be the easiest megabuck we'll ever make.”  
  
“Don't get too cocky. They may be wearing filters. We'll take an entire section shift on this one, and take a few nausea projectors; just in case, I want eight of the better lads in environmental body armour, all the trimmings, and add the neural disruptor protection sheaths. I'm taking no unnecessary risks, so this'll be a no-knock warrant. Get cracking”.  
  
“Gone.” The picture went black.

 

  
***

  
Miles was just finishing the Officer Appraisals when Elli walked in. “They've accepted the Purchase Orders.”  
  
“Did they give an estimate for completion?”  
  
“No, but that was to be expected. Miles, this is a kill mission. Why didn't you check the deceased box on the order?”  
  
“I don't like murder by proxy. It offends my sense of justice, for want of a better way of putting it”.  
  
“Justice? The way you put it, Simon wants him dead, ergo, you have to kill him, or at least make sure he's dead and gone.”  
  
“Yes, and no. It came to me as I was deciding which boxes to tick on that damn thing.”  
  
“Come again?”  
  
“Yes, there's a Black-bound Edict, signed by Gregor back home. But no, it doesn't say 'Death Warrant'. There's no such thing at home – at least, none that I know of, and I've studied our rather bloody history a few times over. Those grey parchments with black ribbons are Edicts, Imperial Direct orders, if you will. They command attendance at court, imprisonment on receipt, removals from office, and so on. But no-where on that Edict does it mention to kill anyone, or the words death warrant. What it says – and I know this, because Simon told me to read it before I left on this mission – was to 'remove this threat in as permanent manner as possible and practicable, by any means necessary'. Those words. I copied them for reference. Here.” he passed over a note on plain white paper, written in pencil, in Miles' 'Naismith' scrawl, which looked like a spider with a palsy, hiccups, seven club feet, and a bad case of a hangover. It was exceedingly hard to read.  
  
“Good grief, Miles, when are you going to learn to write legibly? What are you, a doctor in training?”  
  
That earned a wry grin.  
  
“Seriously”, he replied, “We don't have to kill them. Simon can make them disappear – he's good at that. I know, he did the self same thing to me, for a while, and I'm not exactly the blend-in-with-the-crowd material, am I?”  
  
“...Um...” Elli was trying not to chuckle.  
  
“Quite.” He snorted once, and shook his head. “Anyhow, if we can get them back to Simon, that's it, job done, next case, please. And as you said, two birds, one stone. And he'll be pleased with the bill, it'll be a damn sight cheaper than the ones he normally gets from me!”  
  
“That's true enough. Here's the thing. Assuming that we get them, how do we return them to Simon? We can't just drop into Barrayaran orbit, and shuttle them down, can we?”  
  
“I was thinking about that. We transfer them at the Komarr Jump Point Station. Fastest way of getting rid of them, and then we can go to Escobar for some well deserved R&R for everyone, before doing our next job, whatever that might be.”  
  
“Makes sense, I suppose. Let's hope nothing screws up over there.”


	5. The smelly stuff is about to hit the rotary dispersal device...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all well and good knowing about the element of surprise. The trick is to have it against the guys you're facing. Not the other way around...

"There was one mission for Illyan..."

Part # 5  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!

Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.

*****

While the JACOPS were presumably working up to their arrest operation, hopefully with a bit more than the local Heavy Response Team, Miles and company were busy working on a "what if it all goes sideways" scenario, on the basis that if they didn't plan for it, they'd 'definitely need' a plan, rather than 'might have a use for'.  
  
Luckily, they had two assault shuttles docked as standard, or it might've been, as Chodak and Bryce both put it, "A tad iffy" (it seemed as if Chodak was picking up on Bryce's habitually British Sense of Understatement), presumably meaning that docking Ariel with the station was less than desirable.  
  
Miles fully agreed with that assessment: Ariel was built for speed and manoeuvrability, not trading broadsides, then heaving-to and dispatching boarders - besides, a heaved-to and docked hostile - if rather tip-toe-like - boarding action was how Miles had originally laid his hands on Ariel, and it'd be a tad more than ironic if he lost her the same way - not the least reason being the way that the Master of Ariel, Captain Bel Thorne, had of mentioning his rare screw-ups in dry - close to sarcastic - undertones at the most inconvenient - and close to embarrassing - times! Just as well Bel was on its' first spot of home leave ("the old sandbox", as it called Beta Colony) in close to a decade, then!  
  
They eventually agreed that if things went sideways, that red and green squads, led by Sergeant Taura and Corporal Murka, would make a hostile retrieval, with the option to execute on Miles' direct order, there and then, if no possibility of extracting the fugitive was deemed viable on-site. For this to work though, they would need the whole-hearted permission to enter, deploy, and engage the protection team with everything up to and including lethal force, on the station.  
  
Miles did not, frankly, expect it to get that far - the JACOPS had a lot of experience in successfully laying their hands on uncooperative customers for their clients (Miles had, of course, personal experience of that particular JACOPS specialisation), and had perfected collection and tracking methods that, in all honesty, could and would never pass muster in any of the more usual societies in known space.  
  
It was something of a rude surprise to him then, when the JACOPS contacted them in something of a blind panic, requesting most urgent assistance...

 

  
***

  
Ambrose was a damn good Deputy Chief Officer... Within half an hour, he'd mobilised a shifts-worth of the toughest, most experienced men he could find from all four Sectors of the JACOPS. The eight largest and nastiest, he had suit up in environmental armour with flexible body armour on top, then issued everyone with heavy duty stunners, and a spot briefing.  
  
"LISTEN IN!," He roared, bringing instant silence in the weapons room, "There's a high value Arrest Order coming down shortly, and we expect things to go down the organics flush pretty soon thereafter however we approach the arrests, so pay attention. We're looking for two individuals with perhaps ten or so heavy specy troops for protection. Surveillance is looking for them now. As soon as we know where the subjects are, we'll wait for them all to be in their chambers, and pump them full of Obliverine Ten. Five minutes later, we'll flush with clean air.”  
  
He pointed to the suited team. “Armoured men ONLY will rapid entry the chambers, and maximum stun anything and everything WITHOUT EXCEPTION.”  
  
Looking briefly at everyone else, he continued. ”Non suited personnel will hang the hell back until we get the Chambers Clear signal."  
  
He again looked across the room to the environment armour suited figures. "Armoured Team: If they're wearing shield netting, take them down as hard as you like, using whatever method comes most readily to hand WITHOUT using lethal force."  
  
Addressing everyone else, he continued: "Light Teams: Containment, as quickly and as quietly as you can manage, I don't want a civilian getting in the way, or blundering out of their chambers into the middle of an arrest battle. Also, complete quiet on this: do not use your comlinks from now on. We have to assume they're monitoring our radios. Everything will be in person by either voice or hand signal from now. Has everyone got that?"  
  
A chorus of acknowledgements followed.  
  
"Right. On the board are flat photos of the two subjects we want to arrest. They are NOT to be harmed, bar stunning. The heavies are of no consequence to our customer, so you can do what you like with - or to - them." A chorus of dirty laughs replied to that statement. Ambrose grinned briefly, and continued. "You are authorised to stun on sight, by the way. Stunner tag is a fun game, so play hard like you mean to party hard later on. Got that?"  
  
Again, the affirmative chorus sounded.  
  
"Right. Sit tight in the canteen. I'll give you lot the nod as soon as I have more."

  
***

  
It had all gone according to plan, to start with. Surveillance had run a pattern-matching routine of all visitors within the last three months, and found the fugitives easily enough. Their travel documents were excellent forgeries, and had passed muster at Station Passport Control with no problems at all (probably from a specialist on Jackson's Whole, opined Lieutenant Dakk. Yentall wasn't going to argue on that: Dakk had come in on secondment from the Head Office's Forgery Investigation Team just under a year back) and then they'd booked into a fairly reputable hotel on station under the same false names (why mess with success?).  
  
The protection team they'd assembled were easy enough to spot: They weren't trying to stay hidden that much, and although they looked like typical heavies, they moved with an economy of movement that spoke volumes about the source of their training. Naismith was right: These guys would have been a right nasty surprise, if they hadn't known what to look for.

  
***

The strike was called for 03:00, Station-Time. At S-30 minutes, the Hotel floor was sealed off, and the life-support set to isolation mode. At S-15 minutes, all non-involved guest suites were remotely double locked by Hotel Security. At S-10 minutes, the strike team moved slowly, quietly, and carefully, into position. Light teams contained the exits to the floor, and the hotel. At S-5 minutes, Obliverine Ten was pumped in to the target suites, at fifty parts per million. That was enough to pole-axe an unprotected Terran White Rhino.  
  
And at S-2 minutes, all bloody hell broke loose.  
  
Ensconced in the Hotel Security Control Room, the first Yentall knew was the weapons fire and screaming that he heard over the comms, and the static on the entire JACOPS net, and static snow on the surveillance monitors. Then, the horror that gave professional security men nightmares across the known systems, an explosion rocked the station, coupled with the Local Decompression Alarm.  
  
“DROP THE PRESSURE BULKHEADS – NOW!” he yelled to the Hotel Security manager, who was already doing just that. “FRANK! What the hell's going on?!” he yelled over the now silent JACOPS communications set.  
  
The response was immediate, and sounded fraught with tension. “Dunno. We've lost comms with everyone on that floor. It's jamming. Never seen a damn thing like it. I'm trying to find more environmental armour so's we can get a look-see, but it's gonna take time.”  
  
“We ain't GOT time – the pressure in there dropped like a stone just now. DAMN that Naismith! He never said they had explosives!”  
  
“He never said they hadn't either, boss”  
  
“No blasted kidding. Well, he set this one up, he can bloody fix it. Pull your people back to perimeter guard, Frank. I'm asking the military types to do their own dirty work, and the hell with any damn refunds - we've got bigger problems with keeping the damn station intact.”  
  
“Your call, boss. I just want to know how my people are. Get Naismith to S&R for them as well, willya?”


	6. A resigned call for help...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major Yentall really, really, REALLY, hates doing this, but he's all out of options, Craddick's having a fit, and Miles wishes he didn't have to do it.
> 
> Just another day in the life of an interstellar covert intelligence operative, I suppose...

 

"There was one mission for Illyan..."

Part # 6  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!

Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.

*****

  
Having stabilised and contained - as best they could - the situation, and readied the emergency crews for EVA once the internal situation was better understood, Yentall got on the comm with the station manager. It wasn't a discussion he'd enjoy, and that career path he'd planned all those years ago, was, he suspected, about to go down the flusher.

 

He spent quarter of an hour searching for something in his office before leaving to meet the Station manager, a pencil-necked fool called Craddick who thought he ran the entire station. Yentall had to act like he did, and on paper, that was the situation. Real life, however, tended to pass Craddick by a lot, and Yentall and the other station chiefs ran the station, with an ad-hoc get together every fiveday night – ostensibly for a wind-down drink in the executive mess, without Craddick, who apparently didn't mix with the 'hired help', which was fine by them. The 'drinks session' was their slightly informal weekly staff meeting after all, and station business and policies were worked on, set up, and initiated at more of those sessions that ever were done at the formal staff briefings that Craddick ran.

 

***

  
Craddick was apoplectic. "You let your greed get in the way of good sense on MY station, man! NOW look where it's gotten you! And now you want to let outsiders - MERCENARIES, no less! - shoot up MORE of MY damn STATION?!"  
  
"Yes, sir. It's the only viable solution, and time is of the essence."  
  
"I'm well aware of the time issue, you moron! Just was until the consortium hears about this, The Baron'll probably want to dissect you out of pure spite, I shouldn't wonder!"  
  
Yentall, like so many others, had heard of Ryoval's ...Hobbies... And didn't doubt that comment at all: He wondered however, if the comment wasn't the wrong way around for the two of them. The argument could have gone on for much longer, but Yentall was more concerned, unlike this damn fool pencil-necked administrator, in getting the trouble removed - as quickly as possible.  
  
“You can yell at me all you like later, Mr Craddick, but I still need your authorisation on this form, for the Dendarii to come aboard to clean this mess up for us.”  
  
“Give me the form,” snarled Craddick. Yentall handed over a small read/write pad, displaying a very rarely used military intervention authorisation form – the time he'd spent searching in his office had been productive in more ways than he could have possibly imagined - the form was fifty years old, and well overdue for an update – and true to his usual practice, Craddick thumb-printed it without even a second glance. “Your career is, needless to say, coming to a screeching halt, Yentall. Before things get much worse, I'm submitting my own report. Now get out of here.”  
  
Yentall left without another word. Pity about Craddick, he thought, with a grim smile. Should have read the form before signing it. He just took responsibility for the entire debacle, and authorised Yentall to clean it up for him in any way he saw fit – even retroactively.  
  
The form may have been out of date, but it was still on consortium issue, so that was, as they said, that, and Yentall's backside was well and truly covered.

 

***

  
Miles took the call from Yentall in person. He wasn't about to let a subordinate take any crap from this guy.  
  
“Major Yentall, I presume? I'm Admiral Naismith.”  
  
“I'm Yentall. How fast can you get an intervention team over here, equipped for possible EVA combat operations, to secure your damn fugitives?”  
  
“Shuttling them over in two combat drop shuttles, fifteen minutes or so. They're kitting up now – I suspected we might need them, so was gearing up for it on the off chance.”  
  
“Really”. Yentall's voice had dropped about ten thousand degrees to well below the theoretical point of absolute zero. “I should point out that the fee you paid is non-refundable, now. Read the small print. Section fifty, subsection 'c'. 'Any damage to station or personnel is deductible from any refundable portion of the fee'. Our engineers, having examined the damage control logs, reckon it'll cost several times the fee to repair the damage your fugitives have caused. You'll be billed for that, of course. Subsection 'd' refers. Get your intervention team moving. Lock F, sub level 3. Approach control are expecting your craft, and have prepared a sanitised approach corridor for them to get in here and dock.”  
  
Yentall reached briefly off-screen, and read from a read/write pad.  
  
“Here's your briefing: Following an attempt to complete on your Arrest Purchase Order, it seems that your fugitives and their escorts were ready and waiting for us, with military level ordnance which we have no counter to at this time. They have caused unknown damage and a loss of pressure to common areas in an on-station hotel complex, and we have lost contact with the team we sent in, totalling eight personnel in environmental armour. They have about two hours of remaining air, if their suits haven't been compromised. In addition to retrieving your fugitives, your people are to search for, and rescue, my surviving people.” he glanced up, looking at Miles intently, as if searching for a reaction. Finding none, he continued. “Your people are cleared to use Stunners, Neural Disruptors, and Plasma Arcs. Explosive are not to be used, with the limited exception of non-fragmentation low-yield concussion grenades, which have to be approved before deployment. We'll have a JACOPS EOD tech waiting dockside to check them for approval. Your peoples' Rules of Engagement are that they are cleared to engage and neutralise your fugitives and any person so assisting them only. Station personnel and other uninvolved persons are NOT, under any circumstances, to be molested or engaged. Unless your fugitives and their escorts have breached other chambers on-station, you are not authorised to breach any other pressurised areas than the chambers assigned to your fugitives. Is all of that clear?”  
  
“Crystal, agreed in part, and recorded. My Fleet legal team will be in touch with yours, regarding these extra financial charges you commented on just now. Given that we said that we had no knowledge of any weaponry they might have, and that their CP team was most likely special forces-trained, you had, we believe, adequate warning. In any case, I'm sending my combat retrieval teams over now. We can argue the fine points later. Once my teams are in place, they will not be micromanaged by you, your subordinates, or any other station personnel or bystanders. You let us do our job. It's safer for everyone that way.”  
  
“Agreed and acknowledged. I'll be at the lock to re-brief them if things change in the mean time. Yentall out.”

 

***

  
Miles briefed the teams in person. He'd decided after all that in all good conscience, that he'd follow up behind, as he couldn't ask anyone to execute the traitor in cold blood, and that if it came to it, he'd do it himself. To that end, he was in his combat armour, with his command helmet in his hand. Unlike the rest of the very heavily armed team members, he only carried a neural disruptor and a heavy duty stunner.  
  
“OK, people, we're a go for this mess.” He proceeded to give them all a hasty briefing and their rules of engagement, and added, “And I'll be coming with you. I will not be in the lead – that's for your team leaders, but if it comes to administering the coup de grâce on our clients' target, I'm not going to ask any of you to do the dirty deed, I'll do the damn thing myself, and I'll suffer the nightmares, not you, OK?” he saw quiet nods from everyone. Sergeant Taura looked particularly grim. She was obviously not happy about the possibility of an execution – small wonder, given how Miles had originally been sent to terminate her, and had instead rescued her from the cloning labs.  
  
He took a deep breath. “Right. Let's go, then”. He led them all up one deck to the dorsal shuttle locks, where they separated to board their respective assault shuttles. He boarded Taura's shuttle. The pilots had already been briefed by Elli, so all he needed to do was sit down, strap in, and wait until they got to the station. It was going to be a long fifteen minutes.  
  
Ten minutes in, Taura gave a short grunt of amusement, and nudged Miles, nodding her head at one of her team, who was sagging in his restraint harness, deep in sleep, his mouth gaping wide, snoring quietly. “Private Dix. Does it every time, even in hell drops!” Miles nodded, somewhat amused. There was a soldier at peace with his job, alright. He knew the type well. Dix would probably go far in the Dendarii. Taura leaned in again. “Admiral, are you sure you want to do this? It's liable to be very messy?”  
  
“Want to? No. Have to? Yes. You know me, Sergeant: I won't ask anyone to do something that I wouldn't do in their place.”  
  
Taura looked at him, and nodded once. “Yeah, I figured it might be something like that. OK, sir. We'll clear the way, you just keep your head down – it'd look pretty silly if the target got you, and not the other way around, and I'd have a hell of a time trying to explain it all to Commander Quinn!”  
  
That made Miles snort grimly. A red light blinked on and off on the bulkhead. Contact in two minutes. Game time, as Tung was often heard to call it. “Helmets on, power up your suits, check weapons safe, and get ready to board!” he said into the mike of his command helmet, pulling it on. As he did so, he heard Taura call out, “Would someone for crying out loud wake up Dix?!”


	7. Things are starting to get interesting...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yentall meets Miles. And notes something odd.

"There was one mission for Illyan..."

Part # 7  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!

Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.

*****

Everything went smoothly in the docking, until the ramp clanged down. As was their habit, the squad jogged off, on the basis that if you're in a free fire zone, you don't amble about, you run, and you make it a habit when getting off your battle taxi....

The inner lock door however, brought the proceedings to a swift and slightly undignified halt  as it was still closed. Desault, the newest in the team, and perforce the first in line, nearly jumped through the ceiling as, most unusually for a civilian airlock door, it snapped open, and Yentall, true to his word waiting on the other side, stalked through, bent at the waist to avoid cracking his head on the frame.

Unbending to his full height inside the portal, he was close to two metres tall, and built like a triangular wedge, point downwards. "Which one of you is Naismith?", he rumbled.

He looked a little taken aback when confronted by the smallest of the battle suited people pushing his way through, with an amplified and slightly distorted voice coming from the speaker, “That’d be me, Major.” The Dendarii rank insignia were unfamiliar to Yentall, but the name on the chest read ‘Adm. Naismith, M.’ in stencilled anglic lettering.

“Right. No changes to the briefing, you can go on up. Lieutenant Dakk will show you the way.” He pointed to a more normally built man, also wearing JACOPS light blue and grey fatigue overalls. “The jamming is still going on, and we still don’t know how the hell they got the drop on us. Fair to say that it’s a safe bet that they’ve got that corridor rigged to take out anyone or anything coming down there.”

“My people know how to deal with those problems, Major. Hang on. You said the jamming was STILL going on?”

“That’s right. Why?”

“An evil, devious, more rabid mongoose of a woman who you’ve hopefully never met, that’s why.” The speaker clicked off, and Yentall correctly guessed it was because Naismith was probably on the comm to his teams.

“All teams, this is Alpha. Go secure channel ten, now,” Miles waited a beat, then re-tuned is command set. “All teams, this is Alpha. Turn OFF your suits remote manipulation receivers. I say again, turn OFF the remote handling to your suits: I have reason to believe that the opposition knows what’s coming. Acknowledge by hand signal, all comms are to be by tactical visual means from now. Out.” He waited until all the people in his sight had raised hands to acknowledge the command, and returned his attention to the Major.

The speaker clicked back on again, startling Yentall a little. “Right, thanks for that, Major. A little tactical advantage we used a while back could have come back to haunt us nastily there. Now, you said they were still jamming. What frequency?”

Yentall told him. It made no difference, all the JACOPS channels would have to be changed because of this mess, so any advantage that Naismith had right now, would be gone very shortly after this was over, anyhow. Again, the speaker clicked off.

“Stalk, this is Alpha.”, called Miles, using verbal codes for Ariel and himself. “Databurst for comms countermeasures team on sierra one zero. Extrapolate and return. Over.”

“Stalk. Roger, wait, out.”

A couple of minutes passed, during which time the JACOPS technician with Lieutenant Dakk examined the flash bang grenades that the assault teams had brought, and declared them station-safe. Then Ariel got back to Miles.

“Alpha, this is Stalk, Over”

“Alpha. Go.”

“Stalk. Confirmed, but no one location: It’s a spread spectrum from five different locations, all over the station. Locations coming on sub channel delta. Over.”

“Alpha, roger, and thanks to the comms techs. Out.” Miles made a note on his command helmets’ voice recorder to officially commend the comms personnel on duty for that little job: They’d managed to get one up on Cavilo. He pulled up the location diagram on his helmet display. Interesting.

The helmet speaker clicked on again. “Major, I have something for you. The jamming is coming from five locations, only one of which is in the target chambers.” A small holoprojector on his helmet illuminated the space between them, with five areas highlighted. “You should find the other transmitters at these locations. Given they’re in highly public areas, I sincerely doubt they’re covered by anyone - they’d tend to stick out like anything you care to suggest - but if you want any of my people to come over to escort yours in, just in case, that won’t be a problem, but it’ll take half an hour, though.”

“No, given where these are, I think we can manage a quick look-see on these through our own surveillance resources.” He paused, and looked at Naismith. “You’re a lot different than I expected.”

“How’s that? Shorter?” The voice sounded vaguely amused.

Ernst gave a toothy grin. “There is that, of course, but it wasn’t what I was getting at. No, I had you pegged as some fly-by-night glory hunter, who didn’t like taking risks, and got others to do your dirty-work for you and take the hits. Yet, here you are, taking a hell of a risk in just being here - and you didn’t even flinch when I marched in - your lead man did. I’m rather good at noticing things like that, having been in this game for well over twenty years now. I’ve met mercs before. Something doesn’t add up: You’re not a typical merc, and frankly, that makes me nervous.”

“Major, you’re right on the money there. I’m not your average mercenary. I like to think that I’m better than that, because I don’t let my forces walk into unknown situations unless there’s no other alternative, and I certainly don’t think of myself as a glory hound. I like to get my people to do things, where possible, the easy, indirect, way: It’s better on the profit margins, easier on the body count, and helps us keep a fairly low profile, in a high-profile trade. You may have noticed that we tend to get contracts that rely on subtlety and, if you’ll pardon the word, stealth, than brute-force fleet and military actions. That said, we have the ability, on a limited basis, of course, to do those as well. I just don’t like the butchers bills on those jobs.”

Yentall cocked his head. This guy didn’t add up at all. Reading between the lines, he spoke like a nations’ military man, yet he was a freelancer. He’d read of the shenanigans that Naismith had pulled a few years back on homeworld, and of the contract that the Baron had put on his head as a result. Lucky for Naismith, that the consortium had made the transfer station a hit-free zone in order to promote trade, or Yentall would have been required to try something. He didn’t fancy his chances too much just then, and not just because of the armoured troops in the corridor behind him... Ernst noticed that Naismith was still talking, and paid attention again.

“...I sent the arrest order, as it was your ground, and for me to come over unannounced and uninvited, with a team armed to the teeth to do it ourselves by trying to circumvent your processes on-station would have been, if not illegal here, at least highly insulting to you and your people. I’ve made enough enemies through necessity: I try not to do it through stupidity.”

“I can relate to that thinking, at least, Admiral. OK, let’s get this thing done. We can talk about other matters later.”

“Agreed. While it doesn’t matter to us now, I think, how long for your people to silence the jammers we ID’d?”

“Once we find ‘em, and get set up, a matter of moments only. A SHIVIS - a semisolid high velocity intervention slug - will do the job nicely, I should imagine.”

“A what?”

“A short column of water, roughly 500 millilitres, travelling at about 500 meters per second on impact, propelled by an ultra-highly-compressed air charge. Tends to disrupt any electronics it gets to. Most unarmoured mechanical devices, too, and if really unlucky, any organic stuff that gets in the way too, although that tends to be extremely messy. Our EOD boys have been using them for quite a few years, very successfully. They sell them on Jackson’s Whole. We get ‘em at a discount, of course.”

“Oh, of course”, snorted Miles. Damn, we could have used those a few months back, with those damn pirates and their booby traps!

Yentall continued. “The surveillance system here’s quite effective. We should find those things fairly quickly - they can’t be that small, and foreign objects like that should show up easily enough: There aren’t to many places - especially in public areas - that they can be hidden. You want them taken out as you begin your intervention?”

“No, about 30 seconds into the assault, I think. By then, the fact that her nasty surprise isn’t going to work should have sunk in.”

“Fair enough. I’ll get my folks working on it.” He spoke into his wrist comm, and directed his people to begin the search.


	8. It's odd, but fugitives never seem to co-operate...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluid situations, by their very definition, are often somewhat messy...

# "There was one mission for Illyan..."

Part # 8  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!  
  
Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.  
  
*****

The surveillance suite in the JACOPS centre was a masterpiece of modern technology. Every surveillance camera on-station was holo-capable, and those in public and sensitive areas were equipped with other facilities too, like thermal imagers. It was the TI equipment that saved the day. Four items, on the same level of the hotel as the compromised guest chambers, inside the environmental seals, but outside the complex, were affixed to the walls of common areas, and painted so as to look like service points, and were warmer than the walls they were mounted on. They’d never have received a second glance from transients, and even station personnel would have been hard-pressed to recognise the items as fakes, until they tried to access them. Records showed that they’d been there for almost a week, without being noticed. Someone would plainly be getting it in the neck for that foul-up, but only after the inevitable on-station post-calamity witch-hunt.

Yentall relayed this to Miles. "Verdammtes kluges! Excuse me, Admiral. Very clever, your fugitives." He described what the surveillance centre had found. "more to the point, they’re all on inward-facing walls, presumably to amplify any radiated signal, much like a radome, in one main direction - in this case, to the hotel floor. It’s very slick, dammit."

"More to the point, Major, if people have been passing them every day, chances are very good that they aren’t proximity booby-trapped, or they would probably have gone off by now."

"Good point. I’ll have the EOD boys do a brush-past SHIVIS interdiction."

"How will that work - will it be fast or slow?"

"They’ll come at the devices from opposite directions, one with the SHIVIS, the other with a folding tripod, drop the pod, mount the SHIVIS, and initiate, from drop to initiation, about three seconds. They practice this a hell of a lot. They can get the exact height for the pods from the surveillance records."

"Impressive."

"We try to be, at least."

They regarded each other briefly. Miles broke the silence. "OK, once we mount the assault, 30 seconds in, I want your EOD teams to interdict those jammers. Can this be done, all at the same time?"

"There may be a second or three between them, but close enough, yeah."

"Fine, we’ll be coming in from each end of the corridor. I want you to kill the power to the entire hotel floor when we breach. No sense in leaving them any advantages, after all."

"No problem."

"Next, I need a pair of buffer locks that we can use to stage the assault: I don’t want to stuff up the station more than it already has been: have you got portable airlock bulkheads we can deploy? We’ll need at least ten more metres of corridor isolated at each end of the compromised area, for this to work".

"I think we can arrange that."

"Fine. Let’s get to work, then."

***

It took close to an hour to get the airlocks in place. Fitting them was easy enough; it was getting them in pace that took the time - they were intended to be used in micro-gravity, in the vacuum of space, rather than in a cramped space station corridor, in ESG (Earth Standard Gravity). The station decorators were going to have a bit of work on their hands to fill and repaint the gouges caused in getting them in place, thought Miles, surveying a hundred-meter-long groove in the wall leading to the hotel goods access entrance.

Then came the bad news. Taura had surveyed the bulkhead, and found that it had no access hatch.

"Say that again?" asked Miles, not quite believing the news.

"No access hatch, Sir. We’ll have to cut out way through if they can’t raise it. We’re going to need one of our demo techs and a crate of linear cutting charges from Ariel if that’s the case."

"Oh, wonderful. Major?"

Yentall wasn’t surprised. "Looks like they cut corners building this place. Typical, but not a great shock to me. Let me check with damage control."

Damage control had both good and bad news. The good news was that yes, they could raise the bulkhead, but the bad news was that it would have to be done the same time as the other one, and it wouldn’t be a fast raise. It’d rise at perhaps 20cm/second. Ten seconds to fully open the pressure bulkheads.

They’d be sitting ducks.

Miles had expected that. "Fine. The moment we begin to raise the bulkheads, we cut the power, as we agreed earlier. We also want to switch off the deck plating. They want to play, let’s have an even fight: I’ll bet that my people practice zero-gee combat more than theirs."

The techs were exceedingly unhappy about it, of course: They did not, at all, want to mess with the gravity plating: It’d mess up the stations ‘delicate balance’ something horrid, apparently. Yentall was firm, though. "I don’t care if it sets off the station balance - you’re the engineers, you can fix that easily enough after the event. I don’t even care if it upsets your lunch. But I can damn well promise you that I’ll be doing a damn sight more than upsetting you if you don’t get it done. Clear?" It was clear.

Miles didn’t hatch the next evil idea. Sergeant-major Bryce did, via a hand delivered message to Miles.

> Have been keeping appraised of your situation. Have noted maintenance remotes passing by every level of the exterior of the station. Have detected a regular pattern of them passing by the windows of the suite you are interested in. Suggest high-intensity floodlighting via windows to coincide with your assault. Should distract and skylight several of your targets at the time you require. Downside is that those of your teams doing the shooting will be briefly flash-blinded for up to a minute post-shoot. Lt Cdr Chodak does not agree with this idea, however no alternative ideas come to mind over here, given the circumstances. Bryce.

Miles was rather surprised at the suggestion, but it did make sense, after a fashion. He passed it to Sergeant Taura and Corporal Murka for comment. They liked the idea, but not at the potential expense of team members, so that was that. Back to quacking again. "Hang on, he may have something there..." muttered Murka, "if the lights go out, are they likely to have synthetic vision kits?"

"Sensors read hard vacuum, Corporal. They’re more than likely in either battle armour or EVA suits." observed Miles.

Murka muttered a one-word response that his mother would surely not have approved of.

"No-one recorded anything as bulky as armour going into those suits, Admiral" Piped up Lieutenant Dakk.

"Doesn’t mean they didn’t bring it in part by part, though" added Yentall. "Easy enough to bring in arms and legs in sections, it’s how they’re assembled after all. The torsos are another thing entirely, though. They’re massive, as you can see." he pointed to the assembled Dendarii.

"Alright, let’s bet on EVA suits with added flexible armour on top, and mining or construction EVA helmets for safety. The rings mounts are the same - it’s an interplanetary standard, after all." decided Miles. "Anyhow, we don’t need floodlighting. We’ve got those Zero Atmosphere class flash bangs, which’ll do the same thing as the floodlighting, but will let us get in there after the triple-flash, not during. No use for the sound element as it’s vacuum, but the flash’ll be damned handy, I suspect. ‘Bog standard room clearing technique’, as Mister Bryce would no doubt put it, less the fragmentation. Should even the odds even more, I hope."

"And if you’re wrong?" asked Yentall, "Your butchers bill might go through the roof, so to speak".

"I know, but in this situation, we have to make some assumptions, or we’d never get anything done." Miles sighed heavily. "No-one said this game was supposed to be easy, but it’d be bloody nice, just once, if the targets’d come out, hands high, and say ‘we surrender’, before we had to go in and dig them out."

A round of snorts of derision as to that liklihood greeted Miles’ pronouncement. So much for that idea, then.

Murka piped up. "Still doesn’t address the problem with the bulkheads, Sir", he pulled a face. "Can’t say as I like the idea of sitting there for ten or twenty seconds making silly sounds as I get shot to bits".

"Yeah, I know. I’m still trying to find a solution there, and don’t forget, I’ll be there with you, and I’m plenty averse to being shot, too."

Taura had been looking a little perplexed for a while now, and finally put what was confusing her into words. "How are they jamming your cameras, major? Aren’t they hard-wired?"

"My cameras, yes, but these are the hotels, and they have fibres from the cameras to a distribution box, where it’s digitally encrypted and radio-linked to the hotel security control room."

"Isn’t that a bit unusual, using radio rather than cabling?"

"Not really. The hotel’s just moved to a new section, and they haven’t had time to get fully up and running. They’re shutting down a floor at a time to get it fully completed. The floor below, for example, is undergoing refitting at the moment."

Miles perked up at that. "Have you got floor plans of how it was, to how it’ll be, and current floor plans of our target floor as well?"

Yentall blinked. "Now why didn’t I think of that?"

"Don’t worry. There’s been a lot of that going around of late. I think it’s something in the water, as they say", observed Miles.


	9. It's all well and good playing by the book...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...the problem comes when it's the OTHER guy's playing book you're working with...

# "There was one mission for Illyan..."

Part # 9  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!  
  
Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.  
  
*****

The deck plans to the station were comprehensive, and all-inclusive. They also detailed some features that had Yentall swearing - at least, Miles assumed it was swearing, what with all the spittle and head-bouncing emphasis - in German for a solid minute without repetition.  
  
Taura was merely grinding her very impressive teeth, while the rest of the team were checking their weapons and glancing about furtively.  
  
“Ahem. I take it that no-one was aware of this, then, Major?” enquired Miles.  
  
“No. I don't know how the hell we didn't know about this – it's the first I even heard of these manual emergency external airlocks. And I'm bloody well going to get to the bottom of it, trust me.”  
  
“Later. The more immediate problem is finding out of our fugitives have used the blasted thing. Your external remotes – can you check their visual logs?”  
  
“Yes. I'll get them doing that now. Shouldn't take too long, since this all blew up over a couple of hours ago.” He got onto his wrist comm again.  
  
Miles made a decision. “Lieutenant Dakk, we should have done this a while ago, but assumptions were made. Let's fix that. I want an environment check on the other side of that door. Non-compromising, if you can manage it.”  
  
Dakk looked to the Major, who nodded back as he dictated to the techs on  his comm. Dakk started talking into his own Wrist Comm.  
  
Yentall finished his comm call, and looked angry enough to chew bulkheads. Raw. “They're loose. They exited the level not three minutes after the breach, and re-entered the level below. They appeared to be carrying longarms. My teams are checking the vids now.”  
  
“Crap. I want to bring over two more teams, asap, Major. No offence, but I strongly suspect that your people aren't up for this fight. I'd also declare a station emergency, and lock it down fast, getting everyone out of the common areas as quickly as you can. I have a gut feeling this is going to get a damn sight messier, before it gets any better.”  
  
Issuing the Internal Security alarm, Yentall looked piercingly at Miles. “What aren't you telling me, Admiral?”  
  
“You recall I mentioned that we'd had previous dealings with Cavilo?”  
  
“I do. Go on?”  
  
“She said that she'd pay me back. I think this is a planned operation from the get go, and that the Barrayaran fugitive was suborned for this very purpose to kill two birds with one stone. She's good at intrigue and planning, and undoubtedly thinks of herself as a woman scorned, for reasons that I can't go into.” At Yentall's deepened scowl, Miles shrugged apologetically and added, “It's a non disclosure agreement thing. They tend to be a part of most of our contracts over the last few years. Sorry.”  
  
“Be that as it may be. We'll sort that out later, too. Get your back-up teams over here, then. I want this ended last month, and by the way, your problems are nothing compared to what I'm going to be subjected to later, believe me. I understand you know Baron Ryoval? He's in charge of the Consortium that runs this place. He gets upset when things bugger up his profits.”  
  
Miles couldn't help it. Nor could Taura. They both snorted with laughter. So, it was true, then. He HAD pissed off the Baron. _Wow_. Yentall hadn't believed it possible to do that, and live. He was rather shocked and impressed, all at the same time.  
  
Recovering somewhat, and wiping an eye, Miles replied, “Ahem. Sorry, not laughing at you, just a memory of our last encounter with the Baron. Yes, we know him pretty well. Temper tantrums don't begin to encompass it, I agree. And yes, I'll try to keep the chaos down to a bare minimum. In the mean time, let's get cracking.” He wrote a message to be delivered to Ariel, and passed it to Yentall, who passed it, unread, to a JACOPS officer to be couriered to the ship by the fastest mens possible.  
  
Miles turned to Taura. “Sergeant: Prepare to move: Ultra close combat, all angles, target discrimination, armed targets only.“ He pointed to the plans of the hotel currently being refitted on the level below. “Clear a path to the lower level, we'll use the stair well here, to the lobby, here, which will become our main staging area. Go.”  
  
Taura nodded, and, without a word, got going. Using hand signals to her two sections of troops, she ordered up two columns, hugging the walls of the corridors, weapons at the ready. Surprisingly silently for such heavy troops, they moved out.  
  
Miles turned to Yentall. “Major, since you aren't wearing the right kit, it might be wise if you stay behind, and direct my additional forces to cut off internal lines of retreat above and below that level.”  
  
“Makes sense, and given the conditions in our agreement, I concur. Although I've a question before you go. If she's thought through how she's going to get at you, how's she going to get away?”  
  
“Good question, and I haven't a clue. You have any ideas on that one?”  
  
“Not yet. I'll be thinking on it, though, rest assured on that one.”  
  
“Glad to hear it. See you later, I hope.” He straightened up, and followed his troops down the corridor.  
  
They found an emergency stairwell, right where the plans showed, and proceeded down, carefully and haltingly. The point man, Dix, in this case, was wafting a drop stick – a two-part rod, hinged immediately past the grip, the second part hanging vertically down to a brightly coloured and fluorescent telescoping-length tip - which was designed to visibly indicate traps, by lightly snagging on the wires used as the triggers to low-tech mines that guerillas used in low-intensity conflicts. He found one half-way down, pointed up through the semi-open-form stair tread, and rather than disarm it, merely signalled its location back up the line, so that no-one tripped it by accident.  
  
The mine was a simple warning: _I'm waiting for you_. Miles refrained from hand signalling 'use extreme caution' up the line. It was redundant, and his forces knew their job well. Red and Green squads were his elite teams, after all.  
  
Dix, on the other hand, was sweating buckets. He hated this goat recon thing. The goat – himself – tended to get taken out in the first contact. Anyhow, he hadn't got time to feel sorry for himself: He had more important things to do. Like staying un-blown-up. The rod was a godsend, and he thanked whatever lower-tech grunt had invented it back in the annals of history. It had saved his neck more than once in this game. Coming to the bottom step, he paused, and surveyed the floor ahead of him. Smooth, primer painted but untouched since then, and free of dust.  
  
What?  
  
No dust?  
  
In an emergency stairwell that was hardly used?  
  
 _Uh-oh._  
  
He instantly raised his hand, signalling “ _FREEZE_ ”, and crouched down on the step, switching to passive infra-red on his visor. _Ohboy_. There, there, there, and, yup, _there_. Sons of... yeah, these bleeders knew what they were about, alright. _Nuts_. He switched back to visible light, and looked up at the walls. Well, that was a relief. No cameras. And no visible mines looking down either, come to that.  
  
He took out a read/write pad, jotted down a note, and passed it back up the line.  
  


>   
> _“IR laser grid on floor of stairs. No cameras seen. Cannot pass without tripping. Orders?”_   
> 

  
Miles hated blockages. They tended to gum things up a treat, and invariably were traps themselves. He sent back “ _Back up stairs. Leave TOPPLING TINA._ ” from the quiet shuffling behind him, Dix knew the rest of the team were going back up. He reached to the utility pouch on his hip, and took out a small box, which he carefully placed at the centre of the step he was on, and uncoiled a cable from it to the next tread up, and anchored it in place with a long cable tie. He then unreeled the rest of the cable behind him as he made his way back up the stairs.  
  
At the top, waiting at the door, was Miles. Dix passed him the cable roll, and dug out a small grey box from a pouch clipped to his battle suit. Miles plugged in the cable, set the box on the landing of the stairs, opened the cover on the top of the box, revealing a graduated dial and a press button. He turned the dial to “10”, pressed the button below it, and backed out, closing the door.  
  
Dix braced himself, counted to ten, and waited.  
  
Nothing.  
  
 _Nothing? Oh, bugger._  
  
Miles turned to Dix.  
  
“Alarm?”  
  
Dix nodded, realised Miles couldn't see that because of the battle suit, and sighed. “Yup. Alarm”, he concurred.  
  
“Bugger.” Miles sighed. Turning to Taura, he carried on. “Well, I think we can say, without any doubt, that they're definitely in there, and that now, they know we're coming. Let's lose the mine before we do anything more. I need to think this through a bit more.”  
  
Yentall, having walked over on seeing them emerge so soon again, was about to make a comment, when Dakk hurried over. “Sir, the sensors have been messed with. There's positive pressure on the other side of those bulkheads.”  
  
“How do we know?”  
  
“The tech they sent up drilled a small hole in the bulkhead, and passed a sensor tube though. It's confirmed. I had them put a fibre camera through, and saw our people on the floor. They're not moving.”  
  
“Admiral, as your targets are a floor down, and presumably holed up, my men come first. Get them out.”


	10. There tends to be only one solution for dealing with rabid dogs...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and it's usually pretty messy...

# "There was one mission for Illyan..."

Part # 10  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!  
  
Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.  
  
*****

Miles had expected that the recovery or rescue of the arrest team would trump his getting at Cavilo for a time, so wasn't that upset. Annoyed at the timing, yes, but upset, no. He decided that the original plan was good enough to recover the team, with a little modification, so re-briefed his people, and let them get on with it, while he brainstormed the problem of digging out Cavilo and company.  
  
Taura and Murka were damned good at their jobs. Both bulkheads went up, concussion grenades were rolled in, and the teams advanced, hugging the walls, checking every nook and cranny along the way for hidden dangers. It wasn't easy. The floor was slick with blood. To get their weapons through the energy scanners, it appeared as if Cavilo and company had used old-style projectile weapons. She'd obviously expected battle armour to be used, so had, again from the massive amount of carnage on-scene, used armour-piercing ammunition. The Arrest Team were all dead, with varying amounts of quite horrific damage inflicted upon them, and the walls around them: They'd never stood a chance.  
  
They then checked the quarters assigned to Cavilo and company, and, as expected, found them to be empty.  
  
Cavilo and company had definitely avoided the cage. This time.  
  
For the recovery of the corpses of the Arrest Team, there was an additional problem, though (wasn't there always?). Cavilo had booby trapped the bodies. Old-tech style, with chemically-powered fragmentation grenades.  
  
Once again, Dix was in the front line. He out-did himself, though. Using stiff electrical wire, he not only recovered each grenade, he re-set the 'spoons', the fly-off levers on the sides of the grenades , so that they could not only be safely handled, but that, if they wished, they could use them on Cavilo, if the worst came to the worst. Naturally, they didn't tell Yentall: He would have gone potty at the idea of frags being used in their more traditional manner in his station.  
  
After the grisly remains had been taken away from the scene, a subdued Yentall approached Miles.  
  
“Thanks. I appreciate the care your people just took with mine. If there's anything else you need for this, let me know. I'll do my level best to get it for you. Tell Dakk while I'm gone: I've got to go tell their families what just happened.”  
  
“Yeah, I know all about those messages, Major. I don't envy you. Anything I can do?”  
  
“No, but thanks for the offer.” He turned to leave, and paused, looking back suddenly. “Actually, there is. This is as unprofessional as I get, but I have a suspicion that the families won't want it any other way. Don't detain your fugitives.” his face cracked for a moment with grief. “ _Destroy them. Utterly_.” The last three words were almost chokingly hissed through pale lips, clenched teeth, and a stone-set face. Yentall turned away just as quickly as he'd turned back, and stalked off, looking neither left or right.  
  
Miles stared at his retreating back. _That's what Simon wants, Major. But I don't want to do it. Not that she's leaving me much choice in the matter_. Miles sighed, his shoulders slumping, as he leaned on the table, the deck plans laid out neatly and clearly.  
  
Taura returned, and set a bulb of coffee in front of him. “Looks like you could use this, Sir.”  
  
Miles took the bulb, and turning the valve on its' stalk, took a sip. Black, with sugar. “Thanks. Tell Dix well done from me, will you?”  
  
“Will do.”  
  
“Any idea how we're going to dig her out?”  
  
“Against AP projectile weapons? The old fashioned way. Yentall won't be happy. It'll require lots of loud bangs and will probably compromise the entire level as well.”  
  
“I wouldn't say that. He's as eager to be rid of this problem as we are to achieve our goals. Also, for his part, 'detain alive' just went down the disposer.”  
  
“I can relate to that.”  
  
Miles looked up at the tone in which Taura delivered that. It was the coldest delivery she'd ever made in his presence.  
  
“Something I should know?”  
  
“Five of them survived the initial volleys. They were shot in the helmets, as they lay on the ground. They weren't shot in the head, sir. They were shot in the helmets. There were no gunshot wounds in their heads that we could see. They suffocated to death. That's not the work of professional soldiers. It's the work of sadistic murderers.”  
  
“Oh, God,” breathed Miles, horrified almost beyond words.  
  
“Sir, We'd like free fire rules, please. And no quarter. We have to regain honour.”  
  
“You know what you're asking, Sergeant?”  
  
“Yes, sir. We all do.”  
  
“Vote?”  
  
“Yes. Desault first.” She smiled grimly. “He wants to put a grenade in her helmet, reattach it, and watch. I think he's ready for the Commando Course, by the way. He's got the mentality for it, now. Of course, I'll send him to the Padre first, if only for a little moral guidance, and to get the anger out of his system. After we do this, naturally.”  
  
“Naturally,” replied Miles, somewhat shocked. _All of them voted for this? Ye gods_.  
  
Miles glanced at the table for a moment. OK, the time to faff about planning was almost at an end. Too much time had gone by already, and Cavilo had been setting the pace. It was time to turn that equation on its' head, and get her reacting for a change. Problem was, things didn't add up. She was not acting like a professional soldier should, and she'd been one of those for a good couple of decades: You didn't just turn up and throw the rules book out the airlock without a bloody good reason, and getting as him, while close, wasn't a good enough reason to get into the mass murder book. Something important was missing. Data. He _needed_ data.  
  
“Sergeant, let the teams know I appreciate their feelings and mood. It may well come to that, but I'd rather see Cavilo in a court, answering the charges, then hanged or spaced for them. It'd look a lot better, and we'd regain a lot more than honour by doing that – we'd get proper closure for the bereaved families, don't you agree?”  
  
“I guess so, sir. Must admit, I'd rather take their heads in my hands and squeeze. Hard.”  
  
 _She meant that, too_ , thought Miles. “Avenging the dead isn't the answer, Taura. Justice is the key here. Remember how you wanted Ryoval dead, and instead got more pleasure through wrecking his financial reserves?”  
  
She grinned evilly at the memory.  
  
“See? Better to make the guilty suffer, than give them an easy 'out'. Agreed?”  
  
She nodded understanding, a little shame-faced. “Yes, sir I see.”  
  
“Don't worry about it. We all feel that kind of hatred at those that commit those kinds of horrors from time to time. It's only natural. The difference is that we have to act as best we can within the rules. It's how we gain power over those that would do us harm and hurt. Can you let the troops know that?”  
  
She stood up as straight as the ceiling would allow her. “Yes, sir, I will.”  
  
“Thanks. In the mean time, we need data. Get into fleet intel. I want a bullet point biographic, fast as possible. Cavilo, First name unknown, last known rank Commander, last known of Randalls Rangers. All source search. Use a runner or optic transmission, no radio or hard lines. I want the info in half an hour or faster. We're missing something important, and I think the key to this will be about her.”  
  
“Since we're not doing anything for half an hour, then, sir, can I get the teams to crack suits and take a bite?”  
  
“Yeah, while the goings' good, do that too, please. No telling, and all that.”  
  
“You might like to grab a bite as well, sir?”  
  
“heh. What're you, my mother?” Miles smiled, chuckling.  
  
Taura never refused a straight line, and now was no exception. “No, sir, That's Commander Quinn's job, I thought?”  
  
Taura's timing was perfect. He guffawed. The problem was that he was taking a sip of coffee at the time, which he proceeded to snort down his nose, causing him to cough. Taura patted him on the back. Gently.  
  
Gasping his breath back, he set the bulb down, and shook his head. “I must remember never to give you lines like that again. Bad for the digestion and all that rot. Go, get me that report. I'll eat while you're gone.”  
  
Taura grinned, and vanished. _Exit stage left. Quickly_. Thought Miles. _Yeah, get while the goings good... what the hell are you up to, Cavilo? What the bloody hell is it you're after? You've gone to too damn much trouble already just for it to be me that you're after, so what's bloody going on? What the hell am I missing?!_


	11. Menus, Bios, and... oh crap!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when you thought it couldn't get much worse...

# "There was one mission for Illyan..."

Part # 11  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!  
  
Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.  
  
*****

Miles had just finished his “ _Ration, Combat, mid-meal, Bar, protein, fruit-flavoured_ ”, and had decided, there and then, to authorise the immediate disposal of the rest of the disgusting things (by incineration, so as to prevent others taste buds being wrecked by them), when Taura returned with a read/write pad. “Fleet intel sent this over, sir.”  
  
“Thanks.” he took the pad, and began reading.

 

>   
> **CORPORATE CONFIDENTIAL**  
>  FLEET EYES ONLY  
>  DENDARII FREE MERCENARY FLEET (INTELLIGENCE DIVISION)
> 
> **PERSDATA SEARCH RESULT**
> 
> **“CAVILO - UNK - CDR - RANDALS RANGERS - BIO”**
> 
> **FULL NAME**      Suzanna Cavilo (no known middle initial)  
>                            [Escobaran Investigatif Federale Most Wanted Bulletin]  
>  **DOB**                   Unknown  
>  **BORN**                Nuovo Brazil  
>                            [Escobaran Investigatif Federale Most Wanted Bulletin]
> 
> **LAST KNOWN DATA:**
> 
> 1\. All indications are that CAVILO is Nuovo Brazilian by birth. It is not known if CAVILO has any living relations. Her age is estimated at approximately 36 Standard Terran, by assumption from available reports and notes. _[Dendarii Free Mercenary Fleet Intelligence Files]_
> 
> 2\. Unsubstantiated data suggests that CAVILO left Nuovo Brazil to pursue life off-world, and hopped the first ship that would take her as supercargo. Allegedly, there is also an arrest warrant on issue for her detention on charges of premeditated first class murder from Nuovo Brazil. Since Nuovo Brazil has no formal extradition Treaties with any of the other Known Worlds, there is little chance of this warrant ever being fulfilled. _[Jacksons Whole Commercial Intelligence Bureau]_
> 
> 3\. CAVILO appears to have travelled off-grid for several years. There are rumours and allegations of her activities in these intervening years, but nothing concrete. Available information suggests that she is certainly criminally minded for the most part, and only came to the professional military career by chance. _[JWCIB]_
> 
> 4\. The Escobaran Investigatif Federale has records of Interplanetary Warrants being issued, then rescinded, in her name, over the past twenty years, at over thirty locations and worlds. _[Escobaran Investigatif Federale Most Wanted Bulletin]_
> 
> 5\. In all cases, charges were dropped due to either lack of testimony, evidence, or both. _[EIFMWB]_
> 
> 6\. Rose from Lt(JG) Randalls Rangers to Commander, Randalls Rangers, over fifteen years. _[JWCIB]_
> 
> 7\. Randalls Rangers is a Commercial Military Corporation formed of several combat assault and escort ships, primarily intended for special forces limited planetary assault. Their reputation is reasonable, but nothing overly special, although this reputation has taken a battering over the last couple of years due to failed contracts in a third of their last tri-year reporting period. _[DFMFIF]_
> 
> 8\. While CAVILO was the Commanding Officer of the Randalls Rangers, the CMC suffered a massive drop in profits (negative 500%) following the Cetegandan Hegen Hub Adventure. _[JWCIB]_
> 
> 9\. Information to hand suggests that this spurred an involuntary separation of CAVILO from Randalls Rangers, by way of Fleet Re-Organisation and a Rump Session of the Board of Ship Masters to remove CAVILO from the company for “Activities likely to damage the reputation of The Randalls Rangers CMC”. _[JWCIB]_
> 
> 10\. There is a current Arrest Warrant from Escobar on issue for CAVILO, on charges ranging from First Degree Murder, to Artefact Theft, Deception, Fraud, and Public Order offences. _[EIFMWB]_
> 
> 11\. There is also rumour of a termination order having been issued by the Cetegandan Empire; A failed attack on CAVILO on Escobar would seem to indicate that this is accurate information, but failing confirmation from Cetegandan sources (highly unlikely), this has to be treated as rumour. _[JWCIB]_
> 
> **END FILE**
> 
> DENDARII FREE MERCENARY FLEET (INTELLIGENCE DIVISION)  
>  FLEET EYES ONLY  
>  CORPORATE CONFIDENTIAL

  
Miles put the read/write pad down, and leant back against the wall where he sat. _Oh, HELL_. This put a completely different spin on things. It probably WAS him that she was after, and she most likely had target fixation, writ large. She lost the Rangers after the Hub mess, stabbed in the back, so to speak, by her own command council. That would have hurt. Being chucked out as well, that would have set her over the edge (not that it wouldn't have taken much to do that in the first place, mind).  
  
This left a worrying problem to be solved as well, though: Who the hell had she conned or convinced into joining her in this scalp-hunt of hers?  
  
Miles mind raced around the cosmos in chaotic manner, careering from one constellation to the next, like a steel ball in a pinball machine, as his fingers tapped out a staccato beat on his knee, and he mentally crawled into the mire that he assumed Cavilo had in her head... It didn't really matter much who she had with her at the end of the day: She had goons, period.  
  
She had to know that he'd see through the hostage rescue plot, Miles realised with a start: Garodovich was just dead meat at this stage: Cavilo just wouldn't want the man hanging around to blab anything he learnt about her – even she would realise that a turncoat was a lousy partner in this mess, thereby doubling his liability to her: Predictable, when you considered the sort of person she was: When you play with snakes, expect to get bitten. Garodovich had to have been a pawn in this from the start. Miles wondered how she'd got her hooks into him. _Oh well, that was for Simon to figure out_. Miles had been looking forward to taking him back and dumping him on Simon's desk as a Hunting trophy of sorts. _So much for that idea_ , he thought, irrelevantly. _Dumping him out an airlock in a spiral course for the nearest star would be the only option now, unfortunately._  
  
Right. Back to Cavilo. _She's got goons. What did she promise them, a fat pay day? Must have, they wouldn't follow her out of a sense of duty, after all – or would they? I wonder if they're some of her old crew from the Rangers, kicked out at the same time for more basic reasons?_  
  
He turned around and looked at the idea for a moment. _Doesn't matter. They're now targets, plain and simple. This just became a search and destroy, not a search and rescue_. He mentally about-turned again. It made sense. The options were a damn sight simpler now, with Garodovich reduced to potential reclamation matter.  
  
Miles shuddered as he climbed out of the cesspit that he imagined Cavilos mind to be, and climbed to his feet, leaning on the wall, and looking over the pad once more.  
  
 _Yeuch. Glad I don't think like that_ , Miles thought. _Wonder if Mad Yuri thought like that? I'm damn glad Gregor doesn't, that's for sure_. Miles closed his eyes, deep in thought. _Hang on a bloody moment. She's gotta know I'd realise all this, so she would have prepared a counter move._  
  
What?  
  
What the hell would she have done?  
  
Just what I might in similar tactical situations: Get out the way beforehand.  
  
What about her men?  
  
What about them? They're expendable, just like Garodovich. She's got nothing to lose, after all: She already lost it all, thanks to you.  
  
OH SHIT!  
  
Miles opened his eyes, and he froze. He was looking into the business end of what looked to be a 4 millimetre auto needler, and wasn't wearing his helmet. _Oh bugger. NOT good_.  
  
Cavilo was wearing a JACOPS uniform, her eyes narrow and cold. “Hello, Vorkosigan, you smarmy self-seeking mutant bastard. I'm going to enjoy this a lot.”


	12. Nothing ever seems to happen at the same time...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And nothing, absolutely nothing, ever goes according to plan...

# "There was one mission for Illyan..."

Part # 12  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!  
  
Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.  
  
*****

  
 ** _Five minutes earlier, two corridors over..._**  
  
Corporal Murka was munching on the frankly somewhat strange-tasting ration bar (it was still in-date, he'd checked, but fruit-flavoured? Not bloody likely), and scrolling through the vid recording of the hotel hallway before the breach, looking for clues as to what weaponry and persons they were up against, when something caught his eye. He ran it again. Nothing jumped to his attention, but it looked off: He just couldn't put his finger on it. “Dix, have a look at this will you? I need a fresh set of eyes on it.”  
  
Dix looked up from where he was sat against the bulkhead, shrugged, and hauled himself upright, and walked over. “What's the problem?” He was picking at something lodged between his teeth with his little finger.  
  
“Dunno. Something looks... goofy... out of place, if you get my drift.”  
  
“OK, budge over and lemme have a look.”  
  
Two minutes later, Dix had it. “Corporal, you aren't going to like this. Someone got out ahead of the breach.”  
  
“WHAT?!” It was just a dull roar from the Corporal. Nothing to get worried about, really. NCOs tend to produce these when their coffee's cold, they stub their toes, or someone says something they don't want to hear. Everyone looked up, of course.  
  
Dix was unfazed. He'd been through the Escobaran CMC commando school, and they yelled a LOT louder than Murka. “Here, when the service cart goes past the door to the room? The door's open for a second or two as the big guy looks out, then goes back in, right?”  
  
“Go on.”  
  
“Look at the floor, the shadows here, and here. I'll run it again. Look closely.”  
  
“Oh, hell, no. _TAURA!_ ” Without even thanking Dix, Murka grabbed his rifle and set of at the sprint down the hall, yelling into his comlink as he battened down his helmet.  
  
There was a pregnant pause for a moment, and then everyone was in motion, the unspoken command silently ringing in their heads: If an NCO grabs his weapon and legs it, his section had better be right on his heels. It was in the manual, after all, as a footnote in the chapter headed 'Immediate Action Drills'.  


 

***

  
Taura was, for once, actually managing to grab a bite of something halfway decent – she'd asked one of the hotel staff if a decent beef steak sandwich could be had, and they'd obliged in almost nothing flat. It even had the decently strong flavoured medium-tan coloured vinegar mustard on it, and tasted great. No salad, of course.  
  
She almost dropped it as Murka bellowed into her ear over the comlink.  
  
“ _TAURA! CAVILO'S LOOSE!_ ”  
  
“OW! What? Stop yelling! Did you say Cavilo's loose? How? Where? When?”  
  
“Piss-poor surveillance camera angle and a service cart – she's been loose since before the locals tried their bag job, dammit!”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“God knows!”  
  
“Oh, crap.” She stopped dead in her tracks, the sandwich halfway to her mouth. “ _CRAP! The Admiral!_ ” The sandwich was in mid-air as she grabbed her rifle. “ALLCALL! Stand to! My team, get up to the boss and contain! All others stand by to breach the redoubt hard! GO!”  


 

***

  
**_Five minutes earlier, four levels up..._**  
  
Yentall was grabbing a bite as well. He needed some comfort food after the family death visits, so had grabbed a Bratwurst and pickle sandwich with Sauerkraut, Thousand Island dressing, and slices of Bavarian Smoked Cheese from the canteen, and was trying to figure out what to put on his hourly log update, when the comcon on his desk lit up.  
  
“Major? This is Doctor Andrews, in the Autopsy Suite. Something strange here. I've just had a body delivered, about ten minutes ago or so. It was found in a room service cart from the Constellation Hotel. Initial external examination suggests the man died of a broken neck. There's no ID, but it looks like someone from dirtside. Given recent events I thought I should tell-”  
  
“ _SCHEISSE!_ ”  
  
“Major? You there?” Andrews was looking at the rollers on the legs of the majors' office chair peeking up from beyond the desk, and a half-eaten sandwich on a plate on the desk, on his viewer.  
  
Yentall passed the Arms Rack as he sprinted out of his office and into the Duty Room, and snagged the first thing off the 'Lethal' shelf. It was a 10mm Rocket Pistol, good for all station environments and EVA ops as well. Pointing at the two JACOPS in the room, he yelled in parting “ _CONSTELLATION HOTEL LEVEL THREE CODE BLACK!_ ”  
  
The two men looked at each other, looked at Yentalls' disappearing back, and surged out of their seats for the arms locker.  


 

***

  
**_Two Minutes ago, Constellation Hotel level three..._**  
  
It had been child's play getting out ahead of the breach. Pity about the rest of the troop, but that was life in the fast lane. Her two remaining troops, both commando trained, were at each end of the corridor, running interference. The Barrayaran pencil-pusher hadn't suspected a thing, of course, and leaving him in the service cart was easy, since a broken neck didn't bleed tell-tale red goop all over the place.  
  
 _Carter should be ready with the shuttle by now, so let's get this done_ , she thought to herself. Getting the uniforms had been easy, and was accomplished the first day they got there, by the simple expediency of quietly stealing them from the station laundry system. They'd paid off, and helped them get past all manner of station personnel without raising even an eyebrow after the shooting started.  
  
She used the small mirror to look around the corner. That massive wolf of his was leaving something - a data pad, by the look of it - and vanishing out the door. Good. Straightening up, she savoured the moment. This was going to be fun.  
  
Slowly, silently, she padded around the corner, raising the Auto needler to the aim, and came to a halt right in front of the poison dwarf. He appeared deep in thought, then braced and snapped his eyes open. The surprised and shocked expression on his face was everything she had expected.  
  
“Hello, Vorkosigan, you smarmy self-seeking bastard. I'm going to enjoy this a lot.”  


 

***

  
**_Now..._**  
  
Murka didn't care who his heavy-booted footfalls alerted as he tore down the corridor. If it put off a potential assassination of his CO, so much the better. It came as a bit of a surprise when, rounding the corner, he was met by a hail of plasma rounds bouncing off his armour and knocking him off his feet. He scrambled for the cover of the corner, yelling into his comlink “TAKING FIRE!”  
  
His section was just coming to a practically screeching halt as he got back round the corner, plasma rounds chewing up the wall beyond where he'd been frantically rolling.  
  
“God, Boss, you alive?” asked Dix, incredulity in his voice. There were plasma burns across one side of Murkas' Armour, and they looked a tad on the deep side, too.  
  
Murka was more shocked than injured. “Yeah. Take that gunner out, now.”  
  
“Done, and Done.” He under-arm lobbed two of the grenades he'd recovered around the corner at floor height, where they rolled and bounced down the hall. _Big boys rules, now_ , he reasoned. He counted off the seconds.  


 

***

  
Taura was charging down the other corridor when she heard the weapons fire, and saw plasma rounds rapidly pass right to left across the tee junction of the hallway. She bounced to a halt in a doorway, surveying the way ahead. Nuts. Too exposed.  
  
Then she saw two small green balls roll left to right across the junction. _Oh bloody hell!_ She dropped to the floor, and hoped they didn't breach the hull.  


 

***

  
Murka gaped at Dix. “ _Oh, hell, no!_ Dix, please tell me you didn't just lob two damn frags at them?”  
  
“Turn about's fair play, the Admiral always says, boss.”  
  
“Oh, Christ. When this is over, you an' me-”  
  
A massive pair of BOOMs and a mountain of shrapnel pinging off the walls from down the corridor interrupted Murka.  
  
“ _SHIT!_ GO!” he yelled. They charged around the corner, loosing off their Plasma Arcs as they sped down the corridor. The hallway was a mess, the doors at the end completely gone, and the gunner, well, what was left of him, anyway, certainly wasn't taking any further interest in the proceedings.  
  
A large hand rested suddenly on Dix's shoulder. “Good work. But next time, ask first, eh?” Taura loomed over him.  
  
“Got it, Sarge.” He didn't for a moment sound at all contrite.  
  
“This ain't the woman, Sarge.” Said one of the others, looking up from the mess. “It's one of her goons, I reckon.”  
  
“ _NUTS!_ ADVANCE!”  


 

***

  
Yentall slid down the step-rails in the service shaft to level three, and saw the access panel that he wanted. Tightening his grip on the rails, he stopped level to the hatch. He glanced up at his two men, following on more slowly from above, and opened the panel inwards. Glancing out for a split second, he took in the scene. A man, with his back to him, holding a long-arm of some form.  
  
Yentall looked up the shaft, and signalled his men to stop, waited until they'd done so, and slowly, carefully, quietly, stepped out of the shaft and onto the carpet beyond, slowly advancing on the man. No armour, so he had to be one of the hoods with that Cavilo woman. He didn't propose to give the man any chances at all, not after what they'd done to his men. He grabbed the man in a vice-like neck lock from behind, and squeezed suddenly and deliberately with all his considerable might. The man had no time to even react. Yentall wasn't a small man, and used his height and strength to the fullest, snapping the man's neck in a heartbeat. He dropped the corpse to the deck, and retrieved the rifle, a plasma arc, setting his pistol down on the deck by the service shaft hatch. One down, how many to go? He wondered. He moved back to the hatch, and signalled his men to continue their decent.  
  
He glanced up and down the corridor and, getting his bearings, headed for where the Admiral was last seen, carefully, the rifle leading the way. Rounding the corner, his blood chilled – a small framed woman was quietly advancing on Naismith, a handgun raised in the aim. _GOTT! She wants to look him in the eye as she shoots him!_ Yentall needed to get a good aim for this if he was to stop her. He braced himself against the wall, and took aim. Head height, only chance.  
  
She stopped before him, and waited a moment as he looked up. Yentall heard her clear as day.  
  
“Hello, Vorkosigan, you smarmy self-seeking bastard. I'm going to enjoy this a lot.”  
  
Yentall controlled his breathing, and started to squeeze the trigger, when the high-pitched sounds of a plasma Arc on full automatic erupted from beyond the scene to his front. He started, his finger jerking on the trigger, firing it before he was ready. “DAMN!”  
  
Her head wasn't where it had been before: He'd _missed_.  
  
Naismith had rolled away, and was fixing his helmet on, grabbing a weapon from the table, but the woman was faster, and was bringing her pistol into the aim. Yentall had no time to think: He raised the rifle and fired in one motion.  
  
The plasma bolt took her in the right shoulder, severing her arm. She didn't even scream. She was flung around by the impact, bounced off the wall, and sat down heavily, her shoulder not even bleeding, the plasma having cauterised the wound. She looked up at Yentall. “Where the hell did YOU come from, you bastard?!” then her eyes rolled up into their sockets, and she rolled onto her left side. Yentall leant down and checked. Yup. Still alive, the lucky bitch.  
  
Straightening, he was about to say something, when a pair of explosions erupted from down the corridor ahead of them, and rocked the deck beneath their feet. They both crouched down instinctively.  
  
“Ah. That'll be my cavalry to the rescue, I expect”, came the Admirals voice, from his armour-mounted speaker.


	13. Secrets and favours...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illyan's likely to have (another) conniption, later...

# "There was one mission for Illyan..."

Part # 13  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!  
  
Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.  
  
*****

  
Seconds later, almost as if in a scene from a slapstick comedy, fully armoured assault troops from Taura's team burst in from one end of the hall, and Yentall's two men ran in from the other, everyone waving rifles in all directions, bar the three people between them, on in armour, yelling at his forces to stand the hell down and relax, one in a set of overalls yelling at his people to stand the hell down and relax, and the other, lying unconscious on the carpet (minus an arm, which was lying a metre or so away), taking absolutely no interest in the scene. Seconds later, the messages got through the fog of incipient hero-hood, and everyone began to drop to a more relaxed posture - much to the vast relief of the two exceedingly interested parties between all the guns.  
  
Taura popped her helmet off, and surveyed the scene, glancing at the now blackened and charred picture on the wall that Yentall had fried (dead centre, no less) with his first missed shot, and back down at Cavilo, then to her severed arm. She nodded to herself, and looked directly at Yentall. “Nice job. I think the picture looks a lot better. Pity about your follow-on shot, but at least you got her.”  
  
Yentall knew when he was being baited, and didn't rise to it. “Thanks.” He looked down the corridor. “You going to pay for those doors?”  
  
Taura grinned toothily, and jerked a thumb at Dix, who coughed and found the picture on the wall monumentally interesting. “Nope. _He_ may well wind up doing that, though. Down to the boss, here.” She nodded at Miles, who was removing his helmet.  
  
Yentall then remembered something. “Hmm. Admiral, can we talk in private?”  
  
“By all means. Your office, I think, as this room has become somewhat ventilated at one end. However, first, my arrest subjects, please.”  
  
“Good idea”. He called into his comlink “Ambrose, this is Yentall, over.”  
  
“Go ahead, Ernst.”  
  
“Frank, have the corpse that was delivered to Autopsy a little while ago release to the Dendarii, please. Doctor Andrews will know which one I mean. I got Cavilo, and they're going to take her now.”  
  
“Nice, and will do. Everything done blowing up down there?”  
  
“I think so, bar the remaining goons down below. Naismith's forces will mop that lot up for us shortly.”  
  
“K, thanks. I'll let maintenance know to get ready with copious cans of paint, then.”  
  
Yentall barked a laugh, “You do that, Frank. Out”. He looked over to Miles. “Would you be so kind as to finish what you've started, and clean up that mess downstairs for us, please?”  
  
Miles nodded, and turned to Taura. “Without breaching the hull, please, Sergeant.”  
  
Taura nodded once, glancing at Dix briefly. “Consider it done, Sir.”  
  
Miles nodded, and turned to Yentall. “Your office? It'll be a bit quieter, too, I should imagine.”  
  
“Let's go. I've got good coffee in there too, and the remains of my lunch.”  
  
They took the stairs, the elevators having been shut off to prevent the goons from escaping. Miles availed himself of the sofa on arriving in Yentalls' office, as Ernst righted his chair, and sat down, shutting off his comdesk for absolute privacy.  
  
“Cavilo called you Vorkosigan.”  
  
 _Balls._ Miles tried to affect a somewhat ambivalent aspect. He didn't think it'd work, though. “She did?”  
  
“She did,” he responded flatly, looking him right in the eyes. Nope, ambivalence was out of the office. Probably out to lunch, Miles thought irrelevantly. “I said earlier that I thought there was more to you than met the eye. I was right. You aren't a normal mercenary. You're a Barrayaran, and they don't breed mercs very often at all. I'm guessing you're some kind of paramilitary covert ops type, probably Imperial Security, but either way, you're about as Betan as I am, and I'm from Hanover on Earth.” He glanced over. Miles had his arms crossed, and his left hand was creeping to the EMERGENCY button on his armoured right sleeve. “Relax. I'm not going to do a bloody thing about it. I collect favours. They're useful in my line of work.” Miles sat up. This was NOT what he'd expected. Hell, he didn't really know what he'd been expecting, but this certainly hadn't been it. “The favour is this: At some time in the future, I may need to get out of here in a blazing hurry probably, if I'm really bloody unlucky, with the entire Jacsonian Security Apparatus biting at my heels. _YOU_ , Lord Vorkosigan, are my ticket out. _MY_ side of the favour is that I'll not breath a word of this to anyone. Ever. Deal?”  
  
“An agreement under Duress isn't valid, you know.”  
  
“Who's under duress? Not you. No-one's got a gun at your head, now. I heard her say it, no-one else did, and the surveillance systems were shot to hell, so they certainly didn't get it. It's my word against yours. Wouldn't even stand up in court here. As to your little adventure on Jackson's Whole, yes, Ryoval took out a contract on you, but no-one's going to try to fulfil it here: As you may know, this place is a Safe Haven for reasons of trade. As to Ryoval, what he doesn't know can't hurt him, can it?”  
  
“Good points.” Miles head swam. Illyan was going to go nuts. Again. He sighed. “Fine, done, and done. You have a Deal. Oh, and my mother's half Betan. Where's yours from?”  
  
“Pardon? You're actually Betan? And you're from Barrayar?!”  
  
“My Da is Barrayaran. My Ma is Betan. Ergo, I'm half Betan. You?”  
  
“Ah. Terran. One hundred percent.”  
  
Miles shrugged. “Doesn't matter.” He hauled himself out of the remarkably comfortable sofa, and clumped over to Yentalls' desk. “'My hand on The Deal' is the phrase, I believe?”

***

It took ten minutes to get the goons below out. Taura threw in Cavilos' arm, and said she was hungry, and that unless they all wanted to look like that, they ought to give up. As psychological warfare, it lacked finesse, but it did the trick. They'd all heard the booms and weapons fire from above, and seeing the body-less arm, made the connection. Pay day wasn't happening today. Time to preserve the skin, instead. The JACOPS tanglefielded the lot of them, and dumped them in the station holding pens somewhat forcefully. The assembled Dendarii couldn't have cared less, they just wanted to go back to Ariel and catch up on meals and sleep. Fluid operations had that effect on people, of course.

***

It was remarkable how swiftly things got finished up: transferring Garodovichs' body and Cavilos' unconscious form over to Ariel along with the four squads took more time that it had taken to resolve the situation on-station, a fact that wasn't lost on Miles. “Always happens this way, Major”, he observed as they walked to the airlock where his shuttle was waiting.

Yentall grunted. “Don't I know it, Admiral”.

“Did you find out how she intended to get away?”

“Ah, yes, sorry, I meant to mention that. Only found out a few minutes ago. Seems that another of her people was a pilot, and he was never in on the gun play thing. Seems he had a ship ready to take her somewhere. Guy by the name of Carter, apparently. Don't know where, though – seems he decided to run away when it all went to hell. Never filed a flight plan either, so we don't know where he went. Sorry.” he shrugged. These things happened.

“Well, probably doesn't matter, as he never did anything illegal?”

“That'd be my take on it, yes”.

“Fair enough. Well, here I am, and that's my shuttle. Good luck, and no offence, but I hope we don't have to meet again!” Miles smiled, and stuck out his hand.

Yentall grunted, but took the offered hand, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Safe journey. Oh, and my legal types will probably be foaming up on the airwaves at your legal types over the station damages, I'd imagine.”

Miles grinned. “The already are, at last report.” The shuttle doors closed on whatever reply Yentall may have been working on, but his evil smirk spoke volumes.


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Messy endings and unexpected beginnings...

# "There was one mission for Illyan..."

Epilogue...  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning

Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!  
  
Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.  
  
*****

_About twelve hours later..._

Craddick was in fine form: He was almost frothing at the mouth as he berated Yentall for everything from the Big Bang onwards through time. Yentall, for his part, was silent, but only because he didn’t trust himself to stay coherent for much longer than the couple of microseconds it would take before he was ready to leap the imported fine Earth Oak desk, and throttle the man with his own neck tie. Slowly. With much baring and grinding of teeth by Yentall, and unintelligible gargling of throat and obligatory death rattle by Craddick. For this display of iron-willed self control, Yentall deserved a medal. Sadly, he wouldn’t get one. He’d get something totally unexpected instead.

The office door opened, and Craddicks long-suffering aide, a reed of a man by the name of Stivers, hurried in, glancing over his shoulder, almost careered into Yentall, and went to tell Craddick something. Craddick forestalled him.

“I said NO interruptions, Stivers! What are you, deaf or something?!”

Stivers swallowed, glanced over his shoulder again, and whispered urgently to Craddick. Yentall, meanwhile, was following where Stivers obviously terrified glances were leading, observed the pair of men who had silently appeared in the doorway, and what they were wearing and carrying, and swallowed. Hard.

Craddick looked up. And went a very delicate shade of white.

Stivers just tried to melt into the background, like he’d never existed.

The pair of men in suits, the expense of which made Craddicks’ annual salary look like a mere pittance, stepped into the office, their shoes making not the slightest sound on the floor. They were of average height and build, carried small blue portfolios in their left hands, and looked, for all intents and purposes, like either accountants or lawyers. People in the know, however, know otherwise.

The blue portfolios bearing the gold crest of House Ryoval gave it away. They were Consortium Executive Envoys.

There were only ten of them at any one time, two from each of the five most influential - powerful, in other words - Houses on Jackson’s Whole, and they always travelled in pairs. Their powers were devolved by the authority given them by the Consortium Management Council, and used where necessary, “For the good of the Consortium”, which inevitably meant that they acted to preserve the Consortium, period. They were, in many ways, the last step that the CMC used to keep the entire enterprise system on Jackson’s Whole running. The nursery rhyme used to keep naughty children in line started “Two By Two, Wallets of Blue...”, and was remarkably effective.

The slightly shorter of the two spoke up, filling the silence with his surprisingly soft voice, which had, even then, a timber of menace to it. “My name is Mister Blanc. My colleague is Mister Vert. The Baron has taken a keen interest in the recent events here. He has read, and reread, both of your reports, and the reports of others on-station. We are his personal representatives.”

Mister Vert now took over, laying his portfolio on Craddicks’ desk, and extracting a small, hand-written note, at the top which was the crest of House Ryoval. He read directly from it, in a slow, measured manner: “Station Manager James Edmund Richard Craddick: By the command of Baron Ryoval, and for the good of the Consortium, you are removed from your post with immediate effect. You are to return to Jackson’s Whole to make personal apology to the Baron for this entire affair. You have ten minutes to arrange your affairs into order.”

The effect was immediate. Craddick crumpled, like a puppet with its’ strings cut. He slid of his chair and onto the floor in complete and utter shock. His mouth was making speaking motions, but nothing was coming out. It was devastating to watch. Blanc looked on impassionately, as Vert walked around the desk, reached down, and helped Craddick back onto his seat, then turned and addressed Stivers, trembling in the corner. “We have no instructions regarding you, Mister Stivers. Why don’t you help Mister Craddick get his affairs in order?”

Blanc now addressed Yentall. “Major Yentall. Please come with me.” Yentall was almost certain he was walking to his death. Civilians made apologies. The paramilitaries almost always walked out an airlock. There was no way of avoiding it, and trying to get out of it would most likely mean he’d die tired, so he decided to lead by example, for the rest of his short tenure in this life. He took a deep breath, steeled himself for the inevitable, and followed Blanc.

It came as a massive surprise to him then, when, in the ante-room, Stivers’ office space, the Envoy turned and, indicating the desk, said one word. “Sit.”

Pulling a chair away from the wall, Blanc sat opposite Yentall. “You understand that for one to rise, another must, invariably, fall, do you not?” He didn’t wait for Yentall to say anything, and continued, “By getting Craddick to sign that form, you succeeded in saving yourself. The Baron knows it, you know it, and soon, Craddick will understand it. It will not happen again.” He looked intently at Yentall. “Will it?”

_Lieber Gott, have I got my life back again?_ “No, sir.”

“Very well, then. Now, current matters. It appears that this station no longer possesses a manager. The Baron feels that a more disciplined view is required to fill the void, and improve the overall situation. A situation with which he believes you are intimately familiar.”

Yentall realised that he was being offered his head. On a platter.

Blanc placed his own portfolio on the desk, and pulled an almost identical note from it, again, bearing the House Ryoval Crest at the top, and began to read from it. “Major Ernst Gustav Yentall, by the direct and personal order of Baron Ryoval, and for the good of the Consortium, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Full Colonel, and appointed station commander of this transfer station.” He stopped reading, placed the note on top of his portfolio case, and regarded Yentall intently. “Do you fully understand, Colonel, that this is not something that comes along twice?”

“Yes, sir.” Yentall got it, alright. Screw up again, and go meet the Baron for a very short and intense few seconds.

“Very well, then. Can I report to the Baron that things are going to improve here in extremely short order?”

Yentall swallowed. _Time to ask the impossible, but be honest._ “I’ll need an increased budget, sir. Station resources for security and defence alone for example, are abysmal. The rest isn't that far behind, either.”

Blanc snapped his gloved fingers. “Almost forgot.” He pulled another item from his portfolio, a read/write pad. “Signature, please.”

Yentall wasn’t about to be a Craddick. He read the budget authorisation form carefully, before placing his thumb on the signature box, to Blanc’s obvious amusement. “I can see you’re just the right man for this post, Colonel. Congratulations.”

 

 

 

 

_(Author: With apologies to Joss Whedon for the Blue Wallets misquote bit. Sorry, it was too good to ignore, and I couldn’t resist...!)_  



End file.
